Infinity

Time passed. I cleaned my un et demi, fussing over details the curator fixed sooner and better. The studio apartment was pristine when I woke up, and her morning tea was our new routine. As my guest, she brought gifts and the doctor. We enjoyed Charlie Parker on the architect’s CD player, sharing passages from The Paris Review and my own writings. All were in bright humor from the change in the season, the shift in the wind. I did well as a host, as a man. I shaved my face, brushed my teeth, wore my shirt, and owned my life.