Um—Your Necklace is Dripping

after Anicka Yi

At the annual benefit for the arts,

a woman arrived wearing Antarctic ice

and the dismantled staves of an oak barrel

in which three substances had been aged:

perfume, beer, and mouthwash.

The ice had been extracted

from a depth at which the atmosphere

was still innocent of industry.

Her date was delighted.

He had made his fortune

in the extraction of things

that had taken millions of years

to become.

Darling, he said,

where on earth did you find it?

She explained the provenance:

a glacial core, an Antarctic expedition,

a refrigerated shipment

through three private customs authorities.

Extraordinary, he said.

Absolutely extraordinary.

He had never seen anything like it.

He asked whether there were others.

No, she said, near offended.

He liked this answer enormously.

He explained that the difficulty

with contemporary jewelry

was its democratization.

Anyone could purchase a diamond.

Anyone could commission a setting.

Even emeralds had become

rather embarrassingly accessible.

But this—

He leaned toward her throat.

This was irreproducible.

The ice was melting.

He mistook the first drop

for an exceptional clarity of cut.

He asked whether she had considered

having the necklace insured.

She said it was temporary.

Or temporal, sorry, temporal.

Of course, he said.

That’s what elevates its value.

He knew a collector in Geneva

who owned the last surviving specimen

of a something-or-other.

He couldn’t remember.

The collector kept it

in a temperature-controlled vault

and had never actually seen it.

At 7:15,

a trustee approached their table

with a napkin folded into a bird.

Excuse me,

um, ma’am—

your necklace is dripping.

Why thank you, she said.

Her insides roiled with glee.

It’s meant to do that.

Her date was enchanted.

Site-specific, he explained

to the trustee.

Process-based.

He pronounced ephemeral

with the tenderness of a man

discussing a thoroughbred

or going outside and muttering

ah. petrichor.

By 7:30,

the water had breached

the topography

of her clavicles.

By eight, a small colony

of extremophiles

began to investigate

the hospitality of her epithelium.

The organisms had spent

several hundred thousand years

living in relative obscurity.

They were unaccustomed

to champagne.

Her date ordered another bottle.

He was describing a recent acquisition

of several thousand acres

of tropical rainforest

which he intended to preserve

in its original condition

until the mineral survey

had been completed.

The woman felt a peculiar warmth

beneath her collarbone.

A fine translucence

spread over her shoulders.

She loosened her dress’s corset back.

He admired the breasty effect.

Was the translucence part of the piece?

She wasn’t certain.

He said uncertainty

was terribly important in art.

He had recently underwritten

an exhibition on Uncertainty

at a museum whose trustees

were quite certain

of his generosity.

By the fish course,

the bacteria had entered

her bloodstream.

There they encountered

a complex municipal arrangement

of platelets, proteins,

and circulating leukocytes,

none of whom had been consulted

regarding the recent acquisition.

The newcomers established

a provisional settlement.

They were exceptionally old

and hadn’t any concept

of private property.

Her date was explaining

the difference between ownership

and stewardship.

Stewardship, he said,

was really a matter

of knowing what belonged to whom.

She felt something

rearrange itself

behind her sternum.

He touched her wrist.

You’re glowing, he said.

She was.

Not metaphorically.

A faint green luminescence

had begun to gather

in the hollows of her throat.

He was overcome.

Bioluminescence!

He had seen something similar

on a yacht in the Maldives.

He wondered aloud

whether the effect

could be patented.

She said she didn’t know.

He said he knew someone

who would know.

At dessert,

a little filament emerged

from beneath her necklace

and extended itself

toward the centerpiece.

It tasted silver. yum.

It tasted orchids.

It tasted the condensation

on the man’s glass.

The man watched with admiration.

The craftsmanship! he said.

The attention to detail!

She excused herself

to the ladies’ room.

In the mirror,

her reflection appeared

to have developed

a second atmosphere.

A pale microbial bloom

spread across her décolletage,

branching into exquisite

dendritic forms.

She fondled one.

It contracted.

She felt another.

It opened.

For the first time that evening

she found herself

in the company of something

that had no interest

in what she was worth.

When she returned,

her date was speaking

to the acquisitions committee.

He had offered to purchase

that necklace.

The committee was enthusiastic.

He explained that the work

was unusually significant

because it could never

be reproduced.

Its material was finite.

Its disappearance inevitable.

Its scarcity, therefore,

almost absolute.

He had already imagined

a private viewing room

with humidity controls

and an pert little plaque.

The woman stood beside him,

her body quietly flowering

into a previously unrecorded

biological event.

He took her hand.

Something ancient

entered his.

He smiled.

He was considering

the tax advantages

of a promised gift.

Excuse me, he said.

She turned.

Your necklace is leaking,

he told her.

She looked down.

The last piece of ice

had disappeared.

He seemed disappointed.

Then he brightened.

Perhaps, he suggested,

they could acquire the water.

She kissed him.

A major exchange

of microorganisms

occurred.

He was delighted.

He had always preferred

an exclusive arrangement.

By morning,

he would be the only man alive

to possess this species.

By evening,

the species

would possess him.