Sometime during the third consecutive night spent huddled over the  toilet, insides heaving and shuddering as I vomit forth seemingly  everything I’d ever eaten, I realize what’s happening: He’s trying to  poison me. It’s all so elegant, so perfect, and so clear, that I almost  laugh, but another barrage of retching forces me into silence.

The next morning I threw everything in the kitchen away, wrapping  it three times in black plastic and burying it deep in the apartment's  communal trash cans, to prevent an unfortunate transient from the  crossfire of His wrath. I am out the door of the complex and halfway to  the corner store when I realize: He knows, must know, where I would  shop.

I pick a direction and walk, enjoying the chill winter air that  soothes the ragged shreds of my inside. I turn at random intervals,  following an improbable path out of my familiar neighborhood, until I  find a small shop with an unfamiliar name. Once inside, I hurriedly fill  a small plastic basket; brands that I never have eaten, strange tins of  ethnic ingredients I don't recognize, foods that I’d never thought of  buying. Soy milk. Tofu. I can feel my stomach reborn in anticipation of  an untainted meal.