Your first and last name, please.

She drops the towel as the bored man explains to her why he has called her, and she interrupts him without listening, saying that she is going to pay the balance with her credit card right away. She is in her kitchen now, looking for the pickle jar amid the mountain of leftovers in the fridge.

“Great. Now for security purposes, what is your full name? And password?”

“It’s . . . Ummm. It is . . .”

She can’t find the jar, for god’s sake.

“Miss?”

She finds it. Half empty, but there is still a few left.

“What? Oh. Yah. Ummm . . . What was the question again?”

“Your first and last name, please?”

She drops the jar. The liquid splashes all over the floor and her body, as the shattered glass disperse harmoniously.

Stoically still, she hangs up the phone and holds her breath and stares at that unfortunate scene. “What the Fuck,” she whispers.

“What the Fuck is my name?”