The Walk Home Was the Interesting Part

June twenty-fifth. There was a date. I went on it. It was, by any reasonable measure, a perfectly fine evening, good restaurant, easy conversation, no uncomfortable silences or moments where someone said something and I had to let it settle somewhere quiet and untouched. The person was kind. The food was good. I walked home in the warm dark and at some point between the corner by the gear shop and my own block I realized I had been thinking, for probably three minutes, about the windowsill arrangement. Not even the gap. Just the placement of the cord relative to the second photograph. I was on a perfectly fine date and my brain went home before I did.

I have sat with this for about a week before writing it, which is shorter than the usual lag, so maybe that means something. What I came home to, the kitchen, the glass of water, the windowsill in the late-night ambient quiet, felt more like an answer than the walk itself did. I don't think that's a problem, exactly. I think it might just be information. The kind that arrives before you're ready to name it and then sits on the counter like Carol's letters used to, patient and slightly inconvenient.

the walk home that was also the whole story

The date was perfectly fine. That is the whole sentence. I'm not saying more than that, partly because I don't have more than that, and partly because the blog has taught me that when the right amount to say is one sentence, adding a second one is just noise. What I am saying is that the walk home was the interesting part. The block looked a particular way in the amber streetlight. I noticed the pavement, the tree shadow, my own footsteps. I took one photograph, of myself, which I almost never do, because I wanted to see what I looked like mid-thought rather than mid-performance. The answer is: a person who has already started writing the post.

I ran two blocks yesterday morning, by the way. Noticed at the corner. Turned back. I am not counting it as anything yet.

came home and looked at the windowsill. as one does.