You think it's a jar of peanut butter. That's what you think. That's the comforting illusion your mind whispers to you as you stand there in your pajama pants, at 2:46 on a Tuesday afternoon, staring into a cylinder of glass and peeling heaps. But no. It's not a jar of peanut butter. It's a mirror. A monument. An archaeological excavation of everything you've ever swept under the rug of your consciousness. The leftovers. Oh God, the leftovers. The inner wall is smeared with tough, dried layers. As if someone tried to paint a failed fresco with nuts and regret. And you stare. You stare for a long time. Too long. Until you start to sweat inside, because there—in that innocent smudge at the edge—you see your father's face when he said, "You again?" Or maybe it's your elementary school teacher, who never realized you were quiet because you were thinking, not because you were stupid. Or maybe it's you. That kid in the backseat of a gray station wagon, who thought peanut butter and love were the same thing.