The museum gets another piece

The quiet days are the worst sometimes. The loud nights in the Karoo with the UV torch and the hiss in the jar — those I know what to do with. Today the house was too clean and my left hand ached under the wrap and I checked my phone four times for a message from Citrusdal that was never going to come because I am the one who is not sending one.

Three. I said three yesterday and I meant it. I counted again this morning over coffee that tasted like dust. The Citrusdal man. The person I left in Cape Town. My father, even though he is not a refusal exactly, he is a refusal I inherited. That is the museum. Most of the pieces are people being decent to me and me finding the exit.

I did the stock counts twice. Both times the numbers matched, which felt wrong somehow. I wanted the numbers to come out different so I could have something to fix. I thought about the degree I quit and how I tell myself it was a choice and not a flight. I tell myself a lot of things. The tape on my hand is ugly and I picked at the edge of it for ten minutes instead of eating lunch.

Here is the ugly thought: I want him to stop being kind. I want the Citrusdal man to get bored and find someone who picks up the phone so I can stop counting. I am building a little wall out of his patience and I will use it to prove I was right to leave. That is the kind of person I am right now. I know what I am doing and I am doing it anyway.