A woman who had recently found herself without a lover found a note. The note said, “The body is brittle. The body is suspect. Yet we pile our bodies onto those of others. We want nothing more, it seems, than to taste the salty skin of another, or to let another taste us. And thus, weakened, bodily, we find ourselves piled high, bodies upon bodies, all tasting, all lost in ecstasy to the bodies and the salt and still wondering, ‘What would that one, just a few bodies away from me, what would that one taste like?’ And though we know what that taste would be, for we have known the taste of salty skin, we imagine some other flavor: imagine it exotic, trying to pin down the singular flavor of an ethnicity: a smoke-dried chili, paprika, curry, wasabi: or perhaps, disgusted with our imagining, we imagine again: only vinegar.” The woman wept deeply, for she had imagined what the skin of so many men tasted like, and wondered if this was why she was alone. She did not suspect that the note had been written by a potato chip.