He brings out a glass bowl with six strawberries bathed in whipped cream.
The kid is determined to pretend that she's happy. She speaks in greeting card platitudes and draws smiley faces on her work. It's her way of getting through a childhood that's starved of love.
The day is flush with sunlight, and the air smells clean. I walk for an hour and feel calm.
He spins the fidget toy on the surface of the desk (spin spin spin), his attention focused entirely on it and not on his book.
The silver din of utensils and the voices sparkling and roaring pin me to the doorway for a moment, before I step into the restaurant bar during happy hour.
The cat doesn't belong to anyone in the building. He moved in, and some of the residents took responsibility for veterinary fees. Now he wanders the corridors and curls up for hours in the courtyard among potted plants and folding chairs.
Her gratitude catches me by surprise, and I don't know if it's deserved. I smile awkwardly, and the thoughts seem to empty from my head to make room for confusion.