At ten a.m., I walk into KeepCup and Mother Hen is the only one here.

I ask her where everyone is and she says she doesn’t know.

We plug lids.

On the way to work, I put my hands in my jacket pockets and felt something in my left jacket pocket.

Like, a powder.

I took my hand out and smelled it.

The smell was unmistakable.

Cumin.

Like, the spice.

I sneezed.

I thought: what the fuck is cumin doing in my left jacket pocket?

I sneezed again.

I thought: damn you, cumin pocket.

The wind picked up and I couldn’t stop sneezing.

And I thought: this is when someone rolls you.

I imagined a white van slowing down and someone pointing a sawn-off shotgun at me and saying, ‘Get in the van.’

I don’t know why there would be a van, but there was always a van in the movies so I thought there would be a van.

I imagined I’d been mistaken for someone investigating something that was large and intricate and would only exist in the movies, something like some pub on Smith Street pumping Xanax in their staff’s drinks at the end of each night as a means of removing emotion from their bartenders so they could effectively run an — actually quite ethical and profitable — euthanasia clinic in their basement.

But that didn’t happen.

Nothing ever happens.

Mother Hen says, ‘How’s your book going?’

And I say, ‘Okay. I think. I don’t know. I won’t know until it’s done.’

Mother Hen itches her arm.

Her arm is dry and flaky, and some dead skin falls on the bench.

I say, ‘Where have you been? I haven’t seen you for a few days.’

And Mother Hen says, ‘My dad died.’

I say, ‘I’m —’

And she says, ‘He was an arsehole. I’m glad it happened. I got to spend three days with my daughter.’

I say, ‘What did you do?’

And she says, ‘Just things. We went to the park. Made meals. It probably sounds boring, but it wasn’t.’

I laugh.

I say, ‘Last week my friend told me her ninety-five-year-old grandma said, “I cannot prepare you for how boring life is.”’

And Mother Hen nods and says, ‘That’s probably true.’