Everyone else had drifted off to the window seat and you were at the sink with six arms going, washing bowls and humming something I didn’t know.

I picked up a tea towel because it felt rude not to. You washed about thirty bowls. I dried four. I said sorry for being slow and you said “two is a normal amount of arms” and I have not stopped thinking about how kind that was.

Fine Dining For Freaks is the moss runner and the flash boil up, sure. But it’s also whoever stays behind to scrape candle wax off the moss.

We didn’t swap galactic nokia numbers. I would dry bowls with you again anytime, any dimension. Bring the humming.