The gulls in the wind looked to her like fruit flies or gnats.
Two gulls flying suffered an in-air collision. One fell. The other briefly stood there—appearing to do next to nothing.
The woman didn’t think she was supposed to see that.
So how far did the injured gull fall?—for it did not show itself again.
From the ninth floor, the adults in the street looked to her like children. But who were the children that she saw meant to be?
“We’ll have to knock ourselves into shape, won’t we?” the woman told her husband. She had once intended to evaluate their options for the improvement of their understanding.
She was fingering her glass that held water—the water that, of course, slides downhill when she drinks it—the water that one could say stumbles.
Now, in the back of their building beyond the river, there is a hollow—the unfilled cavity—although nobody can escape that way.
The woman went to bed that night with nothing much accomplished vis-à-vis the mysteries of daily life.
Her husband, next to her, squats carefully. Then he is on his knees above her.
He keeps his chin down, giving proper shape to what he is trying to express—his romantic attitude toward life.