What remains are the dregs of my intimate failings.
Lou looks over. She is incredible. Earlier, as I prepared our afternoon tea, she reached inside her coat and pulled out a brass instrument she had recently made from scratch. Frumpy bits from the thrift store. Metal trinkets wrung from fences. She emptied at least ten trash cans along the street of a major bus route, persuaded a local metalsmith to provide space and tools. Lou worked, with great pleasure, for two weeks.
Now she plays its music. The clink of glassware against the sink basin. The competing harmonies of running water as its temperature is adjusted from hot to cold, then to something like comfort. Or coherency. Waiting for the water to boil, I realize her instrument has been collecting the light bouncing off the walls. Tuesday afternoon. 2:36 pm. In a car in Iola, Kansas. Get out, reverse gears.