Allison Markin Powell

Even a cracked pot has a lid that fits.

Forcing myself to make conversation felt like standing on a cliff, peering over the edge, about to tumble down headfirst.

kiss wasn’t unpleasant. Maybe not unpleasant, but I wasn’t happy about it. Rather than happy, it made me feel a little lonely.

A grown woman would know how to get warm in a situation like this. But, for the moment, I was a child and helpless.

“Would you consider a relationship with me, based on a premise of love?”

Enveloped in Sensei’s warm and dry embrace, I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry. But I didn’t laugh and I didn’t cry anymore either. All I did was be still there in Sensei’s arms.

He would write something in chalk, like the first line of The Pillow Book by Sei Shonagon: In spring it is the dawn that is most beautiful.

“My wife was the kind of person who didn’t think things through.”

“I see.”

“She just loved the things she loved, and hated the things she hated.”

“I feel pity for these batteries that worked so hard for my benefit, and I can’t throw them away. It seems a shame to get rid of them the moment they die, after these batteries have illuminated my lights, signaled my sounds, and run my motors.

“What kind of market did you say it is?” I asked while pouring saké into my cup.

“There’s only one kind of market, of course. You know, where they sell any kind of household item.”