There are plants by the kitchen window. They get watered when I remember, and they sulk when I don’t. Nothing about them is a routine I am selling.
After a pharmacy floor, the room is quiet in a plain way. The ocean is still a grey line. The plants are just plants. I like that they do not ask me to explain the day.
This is not a ritual and it is not a result. If the leaves look tired, they look tired. Living good, on a Tuesday, is often just getting home and not turning the evening into a performance.
They do not care what the shift was like.
