The Moons of Jupiter

You meet a man on the bus who offers to sell you half a pint of colloidal silver and a chance to wring the necks of prized geese belonging to a man you once hated for some irrational but completely understandable reason, now forgotten. His daughter attended university with your cousin and you met her once, at a party down at the mill. It was a warm summer night and the cicadas were buzzing and there was a bottle of beer in your hand. She came in with her friends and your two distinct groups orbited one another all night, like the moons of Jupiter. The man on the bus asks in exchange for this dubious business transaction, that you give him a the contents of your left pocket. You produce a handful of change, a cough drop and an assortment of pocket lint. He throws away the change, unwraps the lozenge and pops it in his mouth then pockets the lint. He hands you a mason jar filled with a cloudy gray liquid and tells you where the geese are but you forget as soon as he leaves the bus, which is at the next stop. Later, the daughter of the man you once hated gets on the bus and makes an effort not to make eye contact with you. That night, you will have an erotic dream about her and wake up all of a sudden, remembering that you left the jar of colloidal silver on the bus.