Six Weeks
Six weeks passed the way good things passed. Too quickly and not quickly enough simultaneously — the particular quality of time when you were aware of it, when you knew it was finite and had decided to be present inside every hour of it rather than moving through it toward something else. She noticed this about herself. That she had stopped waiting for the next thing. That she had started actually being here — in this house, in this life, in this specific morning with this specific person — without the part of her mind that used to stand slightly outside everything and calculate exits. She had stopped calculating exits. She wasn't sure exactly when it had happened. She suspected it was the drafting table. The building grew slowly. Not the way she had expected — not in a straight lin
- Writer
