The Mug Was Hot When I Made It

October third. The notes have been on the table since six. It is now, I just checked, almost nine-thirty, and I have made real, measurable progress on approximately one and a half of the four sections I needed to get through tonight. The mug of tea I made at six-fifteen is the temperature of mild disappointment.

I don't know why I set the timer. Maybe because the scene had that specific quality, the three highlighters in the wrong order, the page I've flipped back to four times, the sweater sleeve that keeps falling, where it felt like something worth having a record of. Not a pretty record. Just a record. The kind that is honest about what a Saturday-before-a-crunch actually looks like at the kitchen table, which is to say: fine, mostly. Just slow.

the table tells the whole story honestly

The climbing clinic registration is still sitting in my browser history from last Tuesday. I think about it approximately every forty minutes when I need a reason to look up from the notebook. That counts as research, probably. Tonight is not the night to think about it. Tonight is the night for the notes.

thirty seconds of not reading anything at all

The mug is cold now. I made a new one. That is the update. Back to it.