The White Linen Situation

June twenty-first. I want to state for the record that I was aware of the risk. White linen in summer is essentially optimism in fabric form, and I wore it anyway.

Simone came by before noon, this happens sometimes on days when neither of us has work until the afternoon, a loose, unscheduled kind of Tuesday that turns into coffee and standing in each other's kitchens. She looked at the shirt. She looked at me. She said, and I am quoting, 'I'm documenting this.' The way she said it was fond and also genuinely concerned, which I think is the most accurate summary of what our friendship looks like.

The verdict is being deliberated.

I held still for it. I even did a small turn. I'm not sure what came over me except that it was summer and the light in the kitchen was doing the thing it does in June, that particular quality of late-morning brightness that makes even a small apartment feel like it has more room than it does. The windowsill caught it the way it always does, all five objects and the gap and Gerald trailing over the edge of the shelf, just being exactly what it is.

The windowsill does what it always does. Holds everything still.

The linen made it to the end of the day without incident, which I think both of us considered a minor victory. The bar was on the floor, which meant clearing it felt genuinely good. The sketchbook is still on the kitchen table from when I opened it last week. I keep meaning to do something about that. I probably won't today either, and I find I'm fine with it.