I watch an X-Files episode about a murderous doll, while slicing potatoes with a borrowed mandolin for potatoes au gratin. I let the dog out onto the deck, dried bamboo leaves skitter under her paws. Will we color eggs tomorrow? The wind chimes murmur spring but I am prosaic tonight. I leave the sliding door open to the balcony. The purple pen adds and subtracts items from my to-do list. After the buzz, I unload the laundry, saving the dryer sheet to draw in its disintegrated scent in one long breath. I fold my mother’s shirts for rehab as I wait to take the gratin out of the oven. I feel as if I’ve outgrown something. Wikipedia tells me this episode was co-written by Stephen King. It’s like I’m clairvoyant. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I finished it. Today was unseasonably warm. I find my blue and white striped sleep shorts and the red tee-shirt from a roadside bar in upstate New York where I played my first gig, slide under the vined sheets. In the yellow glow of my clip-on book light, I struggle to read Wolf Hall. Scott’s counting on my thoughts in the Google doc by Monday. My thoughts wander—Mulder, it’s me.
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