Not Driving Tonight

I am not driving tonight. First night in eight I have not packed the kit. The torch strap sits crooked on the Velcro and my thumb is still half-closed from the lid. I could go anyway. I am not going. I am on the couch at nine with Pieter's printout under a saucer because I ran out of clean plates.

I could be the woman I was last month. Thermos in the passenger seat, UV on by nine, dirt road by ten. Instead I am going to bed before eleven like a person who keeps office hours. I do not recognize her. I am not sure yet whether to be worried or relieved.

Fourteen days became fifteen around when the kettle clicked off. I did not mark it. That is the point. If I let the count slip I do not have to admit I was counting.

I opened the Citrusdal photo again. The dogs. I had left it on seen and that had felt correct. It still feels correct to have left it on seen. It also felt correct tonight to look at it for a long time without liking it. Both things are true. I am not sending anything back. I am also not deleting the thread. That is a third thing I do not know what to do with.

The wall has three more rows on the north face. The hardware man measured twice, cut once, handed me the receipt without asking if I was building alone. Third man this month who has handed me something and walked off without taking anything back. I do not know what is wrong with the men around here. I do not know what is wrong with me for noticing.