Saturday noon. Fine rain.

Saturday noon. Fine rain. The disorderly melody of the roaster. A waiter on the lookout. Takes his place between the zinc and the toilet. The delivery boy slips and drops his cargo which opens at the boss’s feet. Yellow chicken, fried potatoes. No, maybe later. Three guys load up while they moan. A fourth joins them. Silence. Shards of laughter. The rattling of a crate, a plate that breaks, the old lady coughs (it is often these days). She thinks, “It’s not the surplus that overflows, it’s the absence that grows.” A square wheel. Her life. A life. Loneliness is a funny idea. Caramel apple tart. No coffee. The pavement is overrun with the heels of the kids of the school opposite. A chill wind enters without asking. Soon the skull is empty. The creaking of a hinge that lingers, then dies, easy. The wind said nothing. It left again.
Vivianne Rozen