Sublime

After he leaves, I fold the document into pleats, like the geisha fans we used to make in elementary school. Then I set the accordion on its end atop the toilet bowl water and light it on fire. It’s an old Russia House trick to keep the smoke to a minimum and contain the ash. When our agreement is converted to floating black flakes, I flush and set

Reality spilled out into the alley like water from an overfilled bowl—as sound, as smell, as image, as plea, as response.