December 6, 2022

apricot

I made a new friend this week. I liked the feeling of that, of making something. 
There was an edge to push against, but an unexpected giddiness on the other side. 
I ordered a scone to go with my coffee. We sat on tall stools in front of a large window, 
filling in certain gaps. The crumbs gathered in an uneven circle as I ate and we talked.
We were starting from a kind of scratch. We were loose-leaf pages, perforated 
from an old notebook. We were dominoes tilting in certain momentum. We were trees 
swaying in a way that looks like waving. We were introducing ourselves. We were 
an act of assembly. We were a detour. We were mattering to each other for a little while
on a Monday morning in the diffuse light of winter. I was wearing shoes the color 
of ballpark mustard. There were flecks of dried apricot in the scone, like tiny suns.