Drifter’s Log

June 28: 8am, 64°. Marine layer settled in overnight. Ring of sunlight barely visible in the clouds.

June 29: 1pm, 73°. Nestled on the sand beneath a palm. No breeze. A bead of sweat ran down my temple.

June 30: 9pm, 67°. Draped the blanket around my shoulders. A shiver across my body. Moved the car again.

July 2: 2am, 60°. Awakened to the sound of rain. Looking out the rear window: the arc of a sprinkler’s daughter. This will leave streaks in the dirt, I thought.

No. 113

Consolation

How sad, Spencer thought. Alone at the dive bar, quarter to midnight on a Tuesday. The lone bartender stood behind the counter, organizing the bottles, closing up for the night. Spencer needed a drink—his boss had died suddenly. The otherwise solid foundation of Spencer’s career began to crack like the ice atop a pond as Spring neared. 

The bartender’s phone began to ring. Spencer ignored it and nursed his drink, and the bartender kept cleaning behind the bar. Only the dull echo of the abandoned ring accompanied them.

No. 072