No Plate

Three days out from the quiet ending—

no fight, just a mutual kind of stop—

I bought nectarines at the corner store.

Ate one at the sink, let the juice drop

down my wrist without reaching for a cloth.

Set the pit on the faucet rim and stood.

Got a second. The afternoon light

came flat through the window the way it would

any other day.

The table behind me was clear.

I noticed. Every other time there was

a phone charger, keys, the mess and gear

of two people in one apartment.

Just the table now. Just the light.

The second pit beside the first.

My wrist still wet.