Returns.

For days I do not see the mouse. I begin to clear its ghosts from the periphery of my vision, begin to believe the hardwood floors are mine. And then there he is again, late Friday night scampering boldly across the entirety of the livingroom floor, I wake with a start. 

The week has been too quick, asking too much of the air in my lungs, plucking the strings from my tenuous connections. I park dangerously close to fire hydrants and spend the day with a slight crick in my neck. The heatwave crests in the late afternoon, a hundred and two degrees and the building smells like a curling iron left on too long. When I deliver the work I am not happy. It is never enough. You are determined to find out what could be. 

Tomorrow you move the car. Take it from there.