People are missing. We are sorry that they have gone. There is nothing that can be done about it. There was a knock on the door. No one was there. There used to be a joke like that when I was a child.

The weather tells us how to feel. Today is a nothing day. Descriptions fail us. Nothing natural speaks.

The apartment is all mine now. The street is empty most evenings. The bakery opens at five am. To be in time for the freshest bread, I go to bed early.

There are three days of work in each week. The factory is quiet and productive. I know what we make but I cannot afford them. The canteen was shuttered when sales went down and not reopened when they recovered.

I have heard there is a city of pigs thirty miles from our city. I imagine it is only a farm. I cannot imagine a city of pigs.

On our talk breaks we stand outside in the yard. The conversation is easy when we do not talk about people. When we do not talk about each other.

There are no accidents at work. I like that we are paid on Fridays. I like that we are paid our money in bills and coins, as our grandparents were. The square brown envelope is soft and warm in my hand as I carry it home.

Four days a week we are workless. I do not know what the others do with their time. I do not see my colleagues on the street. In my time I mainly sit still. I have a comfortable chair that faces the wall. Every other day I leave the apartment and buy six rolls at the bakery. They are large rolls and with butter and ham they make a good meal.

On my days off, at four p.m. in the summer and six thirty p.m. in the winter, I turn the chair to face the window. The window is as good as a picture. A picture that changes. But not too much. I go to bed early.

I am happy to have time. We are happy to be back at work. Work ends and there is time again.

I am in my chair. There is nothing in the sky. Light withdraws from the world. There is a knock at the door. There is nothing to think about except the long passed gifts of love.

Image © Napafloma-Photographe