Not Worth Sitting Down For

7 a.m. The nectarine

unwashed, already in my hand,

one arm braced on the counter's edge.

Juice on my wrist before I thought to stop.

Forty seconds. Maybe less.

The pit went in the drain.

I've been watching myself lately

from a few feet up and to the left—

this is not a complaint, just a fact—

and the person at the sink

was eating like they didn't plan to stay.

Hunched. Quick. One hand still holding

the counter for balance.

Like they might need to leave

before the meal was done.

The pit sat in the wet basin,

still holding a strip of orange.

I turned on the water.

I didn't sit down.