The blood oranges, shrunken and hardened in the blue bowl, don’t ask for my attention. They don’t shrink from my gaze. They don’t fake displays of modesty in their aging. It’s as if they’re resigned to whatever comes next. They’re souring on the inside.  Nearby, a bag of mandarins shines in waiting.

This deserves more than fifty-two words. I met a disturbed woman and her friend at the bar. We talked. At times, she thought she was being excluded from the conversation – believed I was talking to the friend because he’s a black man and she’s easily ignored. More than once, she mentioned suicide.

Sunlight through the picture window warms my shoulder, warms my face. Seventy-five pounds of dog climbs the cushions behind me, wedging himself here and nudging his way there. He settles half on the sofa back and half on my hip and flank.  Two sleepy dogs heaped in a patch of afternoon sun.

Yellow sunlight layers over the green grass and bushy needles on the towering pines. Half of every branch on the tiny maple glows in silvery iridescent strings. The red wheelbarrow turned on its side in the neighbor’s yard casts a shadow against the white shed. I’ve missed this morning light. Welcome back.

White streetlights shine above the empty drive-through lanes of the abandoned bank. The green ATM sign signals the lane where no ATM exists. Just beyond the bank, cars pass left to right and right to left heading downtown or to the shopping centers up the road.  Music plays. The lights are low.

Triskaidekaphobia – it seemed like a silly phobia. Breaking away from fifty-two just for

The man at the red traffic light waits to make a left turn. The light changes. He doesn’t get the arrow. It’s a long intersection and oncoming traffic usually runs the yellow. Traffic runs the yellow. The man at the red light waits to make a left. He doesn’t get his arrow.

A glass with an inch of water sits to the right and slightly in front of the poinsettia with a broken stem. In front of that a cellphone sleek and black. A little further back, the QuickVue box with one at-home rapid test left. A pen points back at me. Still life.

Maybe it’s this cold, the glass scratch throat, and the coated tongue. Today, I can taste the cloudless sky. I can taste its color, the aging paste white and gray. It settles between my gums and lips. It lines the roof of my mouth. Drips from the back of my soft palate.