Today I: Woke up. Hung up the phone. Got a flat. Need a new inner tube. Took out the special features. Forgot the feature film. Wish my pants were made of cashmere too. Wrote this:
At a restaurant the couple passed the last bite back and forth to each other. One piece of sushi, shared back and forth, 11 exchanges in total, until there was just a piece of rice and it was his turn. He considered it. Short-grain, sticky, white. How might he, he wondered, hold it so that in taking the bite that he must take, leave the bite that he needed to leave. He pinched it. Took half between his teeth, and left the other half between his fingers. He held it out. To her, this was a regular gesture. The way every meal ended. At this point she must either: Bite half of the half, leaving a quarter to be halved again and then presented back to her on a calloused finger tip, or, swallow it. Those are her choices. Ceremoniously, she took the half-grain, and put the whole of it on her tongue. It pleased him. An onlooker felt uncomfortable, like she had just rubbed up against a couple rubbing up against each other.
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