Row after row of students taking an exam. Their movements are mostly confined to their seat-space. They look stiff, and their limbs twitch. Each movement seems painstaking, as if they've been programmed to move in fixed ways - slight adjustments of their head and spine, their feet occasionally fluttering nervously (an impending malfunction?), their hands hovering over the page.
Thick stacks of paper like concrete blocks, lugged around in a box or in grocery bags.
Though we have permission to stay as long as we like, it still feels a little funny - but still pleasant - to hang around in a house that isn't ours and finish off the last third of a bottle of sparkling wine as we talk past midnight.
Veggie lasagna with soft warm cheese, savored in a narrow wedge of time between errands and class.
In the back room of the cafe - wood panels, wooden beams, a creaky wood floor, sunlight on the glasses and the white tablecloth. A painting of a white dog, looking distant and benign.
He is small and lovely and brings joy.
She is excited, tells me with a thrill how tiny he is, how his toenails are smaller than her earrings.