She braces her geriatric limbs just before leaping onto the lid, then spelunks down into the depths. Her head sticks out as she does her business.

This was no cursory cleaning. I moved furniture. Saw carpet I haven’t seen in years.

The ottoman was your perfect fit, contouring around you like a corduroy yin yang. I miss him, too.

I grew comfortable conversing with the paella man and the chef who made fresh raviolis. I drooled over the cheeses that molded together in their display cases, a sign of their true delicacy.

The weekend’s snow has mostly melted, save for the edges of things—the curbs and chain-link fences where it accumulated after the plow came through.

I smile at my cleverness. This is, perhaps, the first joke I have ever told, but my weary audience is having none of it.

Pre-quarantine, my small studio apartment in the heart of the city served as a brief respite from my life outside of it. I rationalized the piles of things and stuff.

Ten days into a month-long writing challenge, and I am already ten days behind. So today’s prompt about the fear of failure feels like a good enough spot to begin in earnest.