I have to make a story

On the walk back I see another  water drill for a new house site. It’s tireless hum will fill a day’s silence.

By evening there will be rivers of soft white loam on the streets.

I knock at this man’s door on the third floor to hand over house papers. Wife opens the door and arches her eyebrows to inquire while her mouth  is foaming with toothpaste. She then quickly shuts the door and bolts it from inside.

I wait in the corridor for the man to turn up.

Sure enough, I have to make a story. A parchi of early morning. A green bench narrative.

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