Matthew Paul
Isleworth, Middlesex, UK

Catalogues

I halve a russet. Halve the halves. Make two cuts, at tangents, in each quarter, to remove the pips. Slice a wodge of cheddar; add a few shelled walnuts. I place it on the same plate as the apple. Listen to whatever you have to say.

You sigh before you speak. You talk of your job, compiling catalogues: how you doubt you'll stick it out despite your banterful colleagues, an understanding manager and the decent pay; how juggling your roles wears you out.

But you're not a poor soul. Before tucking in, I mentally estimate the ripple of the crunch around my mouth, my front teeth's imprint in the cheese and the 2B-pencil softness of the walnuts yielding to my bite.

into the river
stirred withershins by the wind:
pinpricks of drizzle