11

There are photographs and miles of thread, a needle pushing tiny divots into paper, a vial of blue ink and a video of the sky. Each morning the birds call out into nothing and a huge swath of blue fabric is made out of an endless gray. There’s a geometry that phone calls make, that people do, hands cradled inward, head tilted up, then down, then up again.

Lemonade. 

There are idling cars and cigarette smoke, a man in a dark brown suit leaning on a crutch, a cappuccino pulled close and a gifted tote resting on a bench that’s too short. The birds call out into nothing, tiny bits of concrete are swept off the street, and a seagull appears on the same telephone pole. There’s a space that men make together, gently leaning away, unmasked. A police helicopter flies above, then a seagull, a speck, moves westward.

Lemonade, he says, standing up without assistance, adjusting his belt, and joins his friends for a smoke.