8:01 am.

“So, did you give up meat when you gave up men?” He pointed at her chest.

The man was in his fifties, bald, holding a cup of coffee that had overflowed. He lifted an eyebrow in question as he licked his fingers of spilled cream. He did not seem to notice the stain he’d created on his starched, white shirt.

“Where are you going, Mommy?”

            Startled, Leslie looked at her daughter with dismay. “I thought you were outside with Kylie.”

            “Kylie had to go buy new shoes. Am I going too, Mommy?” 

“I think I’m just pushing this shit around,” I said aloud, watching the piles of dust and dried grass scoot around under my broom. I returned the broom to its corner, bristles down; the cat who chewed and ate bristles had died.

It’s the slow changes that are the hardest to notice. The slow changes that build until one day they have become a sudden change, like the leaves turning in autumn, or babies growing, or a lake receding. Out of nowhere, something that once was has become something new, and you can’t believe you didn’t notice it. It happened right in front of your eyes.