Words are deposited like sediment on the page, pebbles and boulders and fine silt.
When I find myself slowing down on the keys, not typing with the speed and spirit I need, I watch a few minutes of Eleanor Powell tap-dancing – her brilliance, rapidity, rhythm, innovation, and ever-present smile get my fingers moving.
Papers and books fan out from my desk, like trees flattened by the impact of an asteroid.
Single-minded and unsocial, most of my thoughts caught up in work.
At the library they unpack their lunches from rustling brown bags. From each rustling brown bag they produce rattling bags of chips and sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil. They crunch on the chips while peeling away the aluminum foil and taking long slurps from bottles of neon-colored liquid. They whisper loudly and wetly at each other. Their chairs squeak.
It seems like when we meet we discuss the same things over and over. They don't make any more sense the third time around than they did the second and first.
In preparation for Passover, she helps me tidy and vacuum, stock up on food, tweak the books and papers into piles.