A saturday.

I am waiting for a call. I won’t go until I am called. Or should I go on my own and put my neck under the blade? No. No. There’s still time. What if the call doesn’t come. The morning motor is running, the water rushing through convoluted pipes out of the cistern and into our mouths. I eat half and leave the rest on my table. By the time I return, I hope the other half is gone along with the pan. I wouldn’t want to see it. But what if I end up seeing it? What if it’s not gone? What if I am not gone? Because there’s still no call and it worries me. I feel worried. The ominous shit I ate in breakfast, I feel it turning to poison inside my stomach. At 10:38, a call. ‘Hello. Have you reached?’ ‘In 20 minutes,’ I say. My stomach eases a bit. The worst is over. The call ends. In another hour, something worse might happen. I close all doors and windows. I take my keys and leave.

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