— 2006 —
Hours would pass without us talking. You worked in your studio. I sat on the window seat, my boots and back braced against the alcove. I was paid by the word to write about other people’s words. Honing a line. Finding a place to stand in relation to others.
One day, while fiddling with a lamp, you ask why I don’t write something people might actually want to read. Get to read.
I watch as you adjust the light meter.
It takes a while for a subject to come into focus.
After rush hour, I pack my possessions up carefully and head back on the stopping service to my two small rooms. I left nothing behind, apart from that mark on the window-seat wall, which I’ve never told you about.