Ten a.m., Wednesday

I'm drinking Côtes du Rhône out of a coffee mug because the glasses are all in the sink and have been since Sunday.

From the desk I can see the tourists at the garden wall photographing the arranged rocks. There's one arrangement they all photograph. The other ones seem sad.

The phone pings. It's my former department chair, third time this week. I always let it go to voicemail. She'll talk for a while about opportunities and the future in the French they teach you in Laval, every consonant paid for.

I pour more wine.

I write: Loneliness is not the absence of others but the presence of ourselves, undiluted. I read it back. I delete it.

I write: Je bois donc je suis. Delete.

I write: it's Wednesday.

Outside a couple is arguing in Mandarin by the pond. I don't have a word of it and I know exactly where they are in it. There's a pitch that only happens near the end.

The wine is warm now. The mug says WORLD'S OKAYEST DAD and isn't mine.

I close the laptop before noon and the day gets on with itself without any help from me.