this had been a day when nothing happened. all my patients last night were sedated by the extra narcotics they've been haranguing the doctors for the other day. no one had temperature spikes, no one vomited, not one seized.
i went home and all the tv shows i had expected my tivo would have recorded were all saved. breakfast bled into lunchtime then naptime. and soon, i am certain, i was dreaming of insignificant things i could not remember now.
later, i took calls from people i wanted to talk to although a telemarketer or two fooled me with their non-1-800-numbers. i thought of changing my now ratty roman shades with crisp paper curtains and decided against it.
i think i caught myself grinning as i watched the calamari blossoming their tails into black mums inside the microwave oven.
listlessly eating, i watched the news on tv. the 13-year old peruvian mermaid girl had finally emerged from her corrective surgery. she looked like she finally got what ariel, disney's little mermaid, couldn't instantly recognize - legs, two of them.
i don't know, but i was just vaguely reminded of reading - was it in my survey world lit class or was it just one of those serendipitous reads in the university library on a rainy june afternoon? - anton checkov's a boring story.
without qualms, i decided after eating to immediately wash my plate now zebra striped with squid ink. the temperature of the tap was just right, spraying my hands like a warm benediction.
this was a day of grace, a not so showy gift that disdains fancy wrapping. i looked up to the clock overlooking my sink and its steady hands soldier on behind the spiral of thin fog now rising from the gurgling warm water below.