by Andrew Graham Martin Haberdoedas Sometimes, when Mike lifts his arm to grab something, I see her. She’s there on his forearm, wreathed in a golden banner which reads “JASMINE” in a sans serif font. Her hair is a choppy sea and she has a mole on the right of her hip. One night as Mike sleeps I try whispering to her. “Is your name actually Jasmine?” There’s a long, harrowing pause before she answers. “…Are you actually a skeleton?” My body shivers like a tuning fork. I consi