hail
I am talking to you on the phone now. We are asking the same questions. I am saying I know, I know like I know. I don’t know; what I…
I am talking to you on the phone now. We are asking the same questions. I am saying I know, I know like I know. I don’t know; what I should’ve said is I understand.
I am accidentally unmuting myself while my child asks forcefully, as if owed something I’ve not provided for her, “Can I do some research?!” which is really just a code for “Can I look up kitten videos on the iPad?” In my headphones, I hear Olney tell us that the children at the REC are already addicted to the screens. I let them watch tv instead.
I am preparing to prepare dinner. I slice the celery the fancy way, at an angle. I wash the cilantro, I curl it in half and chop roughly. Don’t cut yourself, not now, I think. I question almost everything. Black sesame seeds, sesame oil, rice vinegar, fish sauce with the cap that’s hard to open. Windowsill scallions.
Now, I take direction from my partner, sitting at the table cast in the red light I dislike, under the lamp I love, properly muted on his call. I slide four ice cubes into the golden shaker. I add 2 oz. of gin, 2 oz. of limey limestuff leftover from the previous night’s cocktail, and step into the bathroom to shake it. It’s cold! I say, realizing in this very moment that I’ve never once been the shaker, always the served. An orange peel rescued from atop the compost bowl, skinned carefully with the peeler.
The afternoon rain was falling so fast I had to take a second look.
Sometimes it’s like this.