An Hour Not Yet Decided
She woke quietly. Outside, it was still gray, and the sounds of an unfamiliar street mingled faintly. Light through the gap in the curtains lay stretched long across the floor. Outside the covers it was cool, and the pillow still held the smell of last night's rain. She tried not to think about anything. Not knowing what time it was, the scent of coffee seeped in from the corridor. An hour when something seemed about to begin, but hadn't yet. Sunlight settled little by little on the glass on the windowsill. If she rested a hand on its rim, she felt she'd sense a cold warmth. Outside, the sound of someone emptying an ashtray, the smell of a far-off bakery, things like that came in on the wind. The wallpaper had an old wave pattern, and the dust on the window frame looked like something the person from last night had left behind. Maybe nothing would happen today. That felt all right. Whether to get up and open the window, or pull up the covers and close her eyes, she hadn't yet decided.
Looking at vegetables in a plastic bag in front of the morning market, I found the lettuce leaves, still wet with dew, so lovely. At the stall beside it, an old woman was trimming green onions and gazing at the far-off mountains. I remember standing there until my fingertips turned red.
Beyond the curtain the daylight was already deepening. In the glass on the table, yesterday's water still remained, and on the small saucer beside it a few sheets of paper stirred in the wind. As if the scent of green onions from the stall were seeping through the crack in the door, it was a scene I'd never seen before. A night's dust had gathered on the windowsill.