Omission

Tuesday is a wall of white noise.

I look at the call log—three minutes

to a number I don’t recognize,

a sequence of digits that means nothing to my pulse.

There is a yellow smear on my left cuff.

Mustard. Spicy brown, maybe.

I find a crumpled slip in my pocket—

Pastrami on rye, 11:42 PM.

I don’t remember the bread or the salt.

The narrative just... cuts.

Like a film reel snapping in the heat.

One frame I’m locking the front door,

the next I’m waking up with a headache

and the smell of cured meat on my hands.

The edge is too clean.

No blur, just gone.