Sunday, August 9th, 2020

In the late afternoon, I hear glass crash to my right. I walk carefully into the kitchen. Nothing is wrong there. I see my landlord walk down the stairs to my apartment. He picks up some shards. I don’t open the door. I don’t ask him what happened. I’m not supposed to be in contact with other people in person, and he doesn’t speak English at all. At some point, I’ll look outside. A draining grate lies at the bottom of the steps outside my door. Stepping on it hurts. I always put something on my feet when I go out. My landlord is always very precise about cleaning up after his projects. If any glass is left when I can go outside, it probably won’t be a problem. But that won’t be for several days. Otherwise, the day is quiet. I continue to work from home. I listen to music that I’ve been accumulating for years but have never heard. I eat my usual breakfast. I make eggs again for lunch. For dinner, I cook sweet potato gnocchi, brussels sprouts, and leftover chicken. As I boil the water for the gnocchi, I only hear the pot sizzle from one side. I wonder if there’s something wrong with my other ear. I turn around and stand with my back to the pot. The sound continues to come from the same side of the burner. It isn’t my ears. It’s the pot, or the burner, or some other freak aspect of the acoustics of my kitchen. I stop worrying. I take a while to decide whether to eat the chicken cold. I hear myself singing “Will the Chicken Be Reheated?” Given enough silence, everything is a song cue.