#95

Before she even opened her eyes, the juggling act of the day had begun. She had proudly filled up her moka pot with espresso grounds the night before, then realized she had overslept and would have to cut the morning coffee out in order to make it to work on time.

Walking from the train to her office in the rain, she passed a pile of broken furniture and discarded clothing and food scraps while a song played in French through her headphones. She did not know French and something about the pile of rubbish pegged her with familiarity.

Recently, someone said to her that her stories had become less sad. They said it with love and congratulations. She wondered if they meant to say less literal or less long.

There had been a person under the rubbish pile. She had seen the flesh of a dirty foot twitch when the clock tower across the street began to boom the morning hour. But she only thought of it later when she was finally able to finally have a sip of coffee. The image only stayed a moment then was replaced. Someone had clicked the button on a slide projector whose carousel was filled with appointments she had to schedule, calls she needed to return, bills she needed to pay, homework she needed to complete, packages she needed to pick up, dust she needed to vacuum, meetings she needed to attend, feelings she had to sit with, a story she needed to write.