Telling him thank you—shirt, palm, sift—she knows that to have missed a single word is to lose the ability to speak. This is how she remains warmest. This is how she does not know her gap, pressure, or wholeness; it is only by shelving what we have already walked around with that we amplify this impossibility: it is around the edges unarticulated in its calmness. If it is taking her five minutes, hands on the pillow, hands on the lamp, none of it will have found a parallel in whatever might still be discussed. Certain pasts can’t be the same sensation: looking through a material onto a material. Often she does not have the patience for it. Often she does not know if he is saying something soft or very soft. What needs to be prolonged is often what can’t always have been developing. One damp street, the curtain that does not hide the light from the building opposite, which of them is warmest and the curtain that is black. The beginning of a word that is often the end of one.
This is what I am worried about and this is what you are worried about. Not unlike a damp towel. I do not know what I am saying and yet this is what gives me courage to have spoken: to look back on it and know that it happened. This is what allows me to act. Her hands warmed by the mug. The mug hot from the coffee. The coffee boiled by the kettle. The kettle scalded by the stove. The stove ignited by the match. The match struck by her hands. Trying to listen to who is speaking. If what is addressed is unheard, has it been spoken; what can’t be remembered can’t be sure to have happened. A knife for the bread and a knife for the butter, and this is how we can be talking about it. I use shortcuts for you as much as anyone, she says. Apple, ample. I am not doing this for anyone but myself. Precipitate the conversations before the day has taken place. Not even in a storm can the clouds be called gregarious.
She opens the door to Dave’s Café—I am telling a story, she thinks, so that I can not tell one. All one has to do to be interested in something is to start being interested in it, the way a blue thing often precedes a dark blue thing. The way the unity of what is separate is inseparable from itself (the top shelf, the middle shelf). This chair, my sitting on it. This lap, your sitting on it. We all switch positions but I’m never the one to tell it. The conversation I had with her when she was about to get on the bus is no different from this, he says. I was about to get on the bus.
Speaking for oneself is one way not to have spoken, she says—plot is the object of knowing to gain attention. The desire to know. The desire to climb a ladder and find something atop: like an egg or a moon, if light comes from it it is alive, or warm. It is possible to speak and to ask later what has taken place. The lights flicker or dim. The soft wetness of the table. I’ll admit why I haven’t been asked to be around much lately after you ask me I haven’t, she says. She and I had lunch together. After what wasn’t spoken. Knowing if either she or he was under or above the table. On the table something very happy was kept in how its legs were arranged.
She says she caught the bus, the salt on her lips, the salt in her pocket. Precision being what we approximate for what we do or do not give one another, we respond—an object can be anything from a chair to a small chair—to objects. Most of the time I do not tell you this, and most of the time I do not know this. The apple on the table, the angle of the table, when she walked from one end to the other, she did so without tension. We, to apprehend, now feeling the having past of what is just a manner of talking about it: a doorway, or any random object, is an object. I thought you were underneath, she says, but she can’t have been observing too quietly or too wetly. The simultaneity of what is being said and what is being said; the closet, taxi, or bus, and the cup, glass, or plastic.
What is drunk has been lifted except for a straw except for what has been handed to one. Many things if said are unlikely to have been repeated. This is the only way to remind myself a we is how actions are performed, she says. It is impossible to ask a question. To brief one by the sink. The coat one wears indoors. What is now known to be something—furniture—that can’t have been accessed in time to make the intended difference. I am looking for the other end of it, she says. The first thing that is said to me can sometimes be what I haven’t said, he says.