The sky has been a heavy, stalled gray for days. A breeze so light it registers only at the edge of sight. The yellow leaves twitch. Against the leaden backdrop, the colors burn — the copper, the bleeding red, the orange, and the lovely, quiet purple of the cosmos.
Then, that low, rhythmic throat-clearing. Not the belly. Thank you very much. But a steady, hollow swallowing. The house is empty. The rooms are dead. Did someone leave a faucet bleeding upstairs? A phantom stirring? Gently, gently, the throat clears again.
But the windowpanes are bone dry. No silver rivulets streak the glass. No heavy beads hang from the leaves. Look down. The concrete turning gray and slick. The dark iron of the drains is drinking. A deep, secretive draught.
Stories steeped in chai, chaos, and the in-between moments. Mom of teens. Teller of tiny stories—some true, some imagined, some darker than they first appear.
