Three strange aimlessness of a taking a baby-sick day. You are not at work, in a kind of semi-vacation that is not a vacation, in continuous scared vigilance, even when the baby sleeps. In limbo at you wander home from the doctor, both part of the street and apart.
The cake in the cafe tastes slightly stale, but don't have the energy to send it back
The bright red plastic back, echoing the color of the red headscarf, lit by the window.
The water lilies in the pond by the train tracks are starting to bloom: a bud, by a fully open flower. They are no the same species at Giverny and are confined to a shallow fountain-puddle, but still can't help thinking of Monet
The deep red of the closed lily bud beneath the water.
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