Thu, 20 August

LAST ORDERS (a partial inventory) One upturned cup, its owner already halfway to the carpark. Two wine rings from two separate afternoons, concentric, nearly touching. A halved avocado, its stone long gone, the hollow browning at the rim. Napkins pressed into new shapes by hands that needed something to do. Crumbs that migrated from one plate's orbit into another's. A glass, raised — or only just set down, the distinction unclear now. Three doors carved somewhere in the glaze: open, shut, and the third that will not commit. The amber light that came in low and said: this is late, this is already late. Chairs at angles no one planned. A smear of chocolate on the rim of something. The second goodbye, which is always the real one.