Thinking of that teacher, and those dreamy lumps of flesh she possessed, Gretchen licks the canvas as if it were a sweet treat. With her mouth breathing heavily upon its surface, she imagines what it would be like to suckle the nipples on the jelly-like breasts she gazed at from the back of the classroom all those years ago. In her mind, the classroom still exists. It’s crystal clear and sparkles like a glass of lemonade. The windows are like ice cubes, and the faces of the other children beam as if they were sunflowers caught in a gentle breeze. Swaying on their seats as the young teacher bends this way and that before them, Gretchen tastes the lingering pinch of salty McDonald’s chips upon her lips and the harsh, dry air that so often stung her childhood lungs whenever she ran around like the busy bumblebee she was. Drifting away from the classroom, she remembers how her father played the trumpet for her. With his big, bushy beard, and wild, searching eyes, he looked like a madman going from room to room of their apartment blowing into it while her mother stuffed her head beneath a pillow in the bedroom, screaming for him to stop. He never did though, and as a tiny Gretchen marched around the living room with a wooden spatula pretending it was a baton, the music he made helped to nurture her fantastical mind, not to mention her crazy kitten smile.