Margen
Gone in a hurry, and breakfast keeps talking quietly: the chair at an angle, the knife lying across the plate, and the crumbs, that brief archipelago drawing exactly where the hands were.
I run the edge of my hand along the table and gather the islands into the cup of my palm. The wood is clean now. The house, in order. Breakfast, at last, quiet.
Tomorrow there will be bread again. No one eats breakfast twice at the same table.