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Today the Melpomene is nothing but hungry: it groans and whines and stomps around the basement, heaving itself into the file cabinets, kicking its boots. Nan throws it potatoes, the birthdays of saints, turingery and Epsom salts. It snaps them up and begs for more.

“We have an agreement!” shouts Nan. “No more until I see a trick!”

It tries to eat the stairs. Nan throws down her shoes and jeans; it eats them and farts. She feeds it her blouse and underwear. The Melpomene changes into a mirror.

“You always do that,” Nan mutters. It shrugs. Nan’s reflection dances indecently.