An earthquake shook the building and it swayed for two long minutes. We were eating shishamo dipped in mayonnaise. We were listening to Bobby Womack. These shishamo are lean and have no eggs inside of them. The grill dries the flesh away from the skin. The skin is thin. I grill them until the tails are burnt but the meat inside hasn't dried out. The guts taste like bitter blood. The building shakes again. For the next few hours, sitting on the bed, working on my book, I stop every now and then, thinking the building is shaking again. It's only the blood flowing in my legs.