Thursday

  • the dog mooching by my desk. Small paws and pound survivor guilt in that wan look. A soft pink line, not even severe enough to warrant ragged, all that I can see of her cancer.
  • words words words. Not tumbling but certainly more than stumbling. Out.
  • he realised, as if surprised, that he doesn’t know the first thing about what his son is interested in. Not, he hastened, that he didn’t know what his son was interested in – music and games, deeply – but that he knows nothing about them.