The Pasta Water Thing
September twelfth. I registered for this class the same way I do most things, a tab opened, closed, reopened, and then one Wednesday evening when I was too tired to talk myself ou…
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The Sheet Had an Answer
September first. I had a question about something, a small thing, not a crisis, not a turning point, just a number I needed to check against another number before I could feel set…
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What the Box Became
August twenty-first. I published the post this morning before the coffee was gone, which is probably the right order of operations for something that short. It was maybe four para…
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The Call Ran Long
August tenth. I had not planned to be on the phone for an hour and forty minutes. I picked up expecting twenty, maybe thirty, the catch-up version, the are-you-okay version, and t…
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The Math Was Not Flattering
July thirtieth. It started because of a sandwich. Simone and I had fallen into this comfortable break-room habit, split something, split the cost, nobody thinks too hard about it.…
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The Morning Had No Agenda
July nineteenth. The light came in the way it only does in the second half of summer, not tentative anymore, just settled into its angle, like it has decided where it belongs and…
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The Notes Page Was Optimistic
July eighth. The break room has a south-facing window that does this thing in the middle of the day where the light lands exactly on the table surface and makes everything look mo…
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We Had a System
June twenty-seventh. The plan was solid. I want to be clear about that. We had a notebook. We had coffee. Simone had divided the material into sections with the kind of brisk effi…
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The Shape It Became
June sixteenth. I published the post on Sunday. It took about twenty minutes to write, which felt right, the draft-folder sentences had been sitting there since March, and by the…
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The Diagram Did Not Help My Case
June fifth. There is a paperback currently living in my bag that I picked up on a whim three weeks ago, one of those popular nonfiction books that promises to answer a question yo…
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