I Six-forty. The cooker does its usual scream.The milk has formed its skin. The bread is charred.She scrolls the feed. He scrolls the same cold streamof other people’s Tuesdays, faintly starredwith envy, then forgotten. Chalo, we’re late.The local train holds its breath for no one’s sake.They part. They meet. They part. They replicatethe day’s small…

Read more →