“Let’s not make this an incident.” I pocket the siren. “You didn’t even like your grandfather.” I hold the photo, a grief receipt. “You’re making this heavier.” The scale blushes, I apologize to gravity.
Sympathetic heads tilt: maybe I run hot. “Everyone says you’re intense,” a borrowed mouth says. My pulse clicks a pen: “noted.”
“Let’s avoid terminology right now.” I look at the bruise, alibi-shaped. “Nuanced context” they say. “Have you eaten?”
A kinder self: canvas tote, citrus, mercy. “Mirror’s a window tonight.” We set down bread, patience, salt. We relabel everything: fog, funhouse, borrowed thunder. We eat, level returns to the floorboards. “Sorry I’m sorry,” I tell the table. The table, a good friend, refuses to accept.