Flat-rock ate, I watched

The containers all got fed. That's something. Eighteen now. I counted wrong yesterday or I lied to myself. The flat-rock ate the one I dropped in, and I watched the whole time like it was the most interesting thing on the continent. Maybe it was.

I keep thinking about the person I left. Not calling. Not their name in my head, not today. Just the shape of leaving. The way you do it so clean, and then later the clean is what bothers you. I left like I was packing the kit. One tub. One torch. Gone. I wonder if I am still doing that, or if I have actually stopped somewhere for once.

Dad rang the machine twice this month. Both times I listened to the voicemail after. Both times I deleted without saving the number I already have. I do not know what I am doing with that. I think I want him to say the wrong thing so I can hang up feeling righteous. He has not been saying the wrong thing. He has been saying almost the right thing. That is worse.

I was mean about Tasha today in my head. She works in a bookshop in Kalk Bay and posts about her cat. I do not even dislike her. I think I dislike the part of me that wanted to be the kind of person who does that, and then did not.

Eighteen containers. I will not be doing the maths.