04/15
          malaise. a clock ticking over my head on the wall, clothes clanking and the hum of a dryer in the basement below, something thudding on the floor of the room above then the whine of a vacuum cleaner and distant recorded voices over speakers.
          an angry buzz from the dryer. the miniature refrigerator clicks on.
          time for some music and a bloody mary.


04/14
          From his rear-view mirror the glass crescent moon still hangs, by fishing line and a swivel. The body is colored like pavement oil, the perimeter is a black metal strip. A clear round plastic crystal—a later addition, to replace the original yellow glass star—dangles from the moon's upper point.
          The oil moon.
          He's had that there throughout the extent of my memory. My mother made it, before I can remember, before their divorce.


04/13
          a window left down, and though I want it to be rolled back up, I instead wait to see how long it takes him to realize he's left it down.


04/12
          Happy China Spa Massage.