The glaring golden light hits my eyes.

I will wash my hair. I will wash my hair. I will wash my hair.

Done.

I grab the seed tray and the plastic tarp and the lettuce seeds. I start to pour them out into my hand and then wish for a seed spreader. I think of the seed spreader and Carlos and that brief but therapeutic time working in the greenhouse of the restaurant. I wish I could have stayed longer. I think of how, shortly thereafter, the #metoo stories from the hospitality industry began to appear. I remember how, back then, I hoped they appreciated my honesty and candor and that it implemented changes within. I doubt it.

The heat of the sun on my back.

More laundry.

My request for a simple dessert of strawberries and whipped cream is offensive to her; she wants to make me something more elaborate.

To stay or to go?

I make a slaw from the kohlrabi. He will not eat salmon but he will eat kohlrabi. This kid.

This layer of quiet over everything when the sun disappears behind the palm trees.