He considered the damp brick, the traffic,
the sound of trash collection. These things he would miss.
The co-mingled essence of whatnot.

Susi Ichiban, he would miss Sushi Ichiban. But not parking, he would not miss parking. Olympia, Seattle, The Mariners. He would miss baseball.
He considered these things. Things of significance.
She asked if he wanted more coffee.

“Would you like more coffee,” she said.
“Please, yes,” he said.
“Rain?” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “More rain.”
“Damp, thick,” she said.
“Monday,” he said. “More rain tomorrow.”

The rain and sky in October. Crisp. And the Moon. And Mount St. Helens. And Mount Rainer. The Bookstore. He would miss the books, the musty muss of pages.
He would not miss Dune, or Jaws, or Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
He would miss Michener, and Raymond Carver he supposed.
Things with a heft.

It was important he figured… to examine such things.

“Where’re you headed?” she said.
“South,” he said. “I am headed south. Tucson.”
“Dry,” she said. “Dry and warm.”
“And sunshine,” he said.
“I suppose,” she said. There is that to consider.”
“I will do that,” he said.
“What?” she said.
“Consider it,” he said. “When I get there,” he said.


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