The kitchen light runs yellow. There was still a wet ring on the board from lunch. I had meant to make noodles. The onion was only half open when a bicycle bell passed the window, the same thin sound as the elevator in my first building, and I set the knife down.
The water boiled and went quiet. The noodles stayed in the cupboard. I sat on the low stool and covered the cut onion with a plate, as if that were a way to keep a sentence from spoiling. Later I heated the pan again. When the oil finally smelled like something, the day felt less empty.
The bookshop after the rain
The alley is too narrow for two umbrellas. The sign had been washed down to the primer. The clerk was gathering wet nylon at the door and moved a stool aside with her foot. No music. Paper, and someone washing dishes in the back.
I pulled a paperback with no jacket. On the flyleaf someone had written in pencil: when you bring it back, do not dog-ear the pages. I read four and put it where it had been. The umbrella was still dripping when I left.
About this desk
I grew up near the river and rent a house where you can see the power lines from the sink. Days I set type for a small press on Mississippi Avenue. Nights I write things I am not in a hurry to show anyone. There is no submissions page and there are no ads. If you have read this far, we have already said hello.