8
Daniel.
I woke up pretending the day could be normal. Normal meant coffee at six, a list in my head before my feet hit the floor, the dock rope checked, the hinge on the porch door fixed, eggs at eight, the three of us moving around each other like a polite machine. Normal was predictable, and predictable was safe. But the thing about rhythm is that once you’ve felt a different beat, your hands start tapping it on the table whether you mean to or not.
After the pantry, nothing in the kitchen looked the same. The flour canister, the jar of rice, the shallow dent in the doorframe at hip height; every one of them had a second meaning now. I wiped the counter with the usual cloth and thought about the sound she made when my thumb had been exactly where she needed it. I put the cloth back
