What they leave behind.
Every date produces an artifact. These are the ones worth keeping.
hey it's me. sorry this is weird. i just realized i left my notebook at the coffee place. the one with the manuscript notes. can you not—like if you see it, just. never mind. call me back.
A napkin folded into thirds, corner creased sharp. On it, in blue pen, two words written small: "cellar door." Nothing else. Found under the table leg three days later, slightly damp from a spilled water glass.
A hiking trail map, creased at the fold, with two trailheads circled in different pen colors. The margins are blank except for one word written twice: 'weather' and 'weather,' underlined. A coffee ring stains the bottom corner.
A metro card with two swipes from different lines, same afternoon. Expired six months ago. A phone number written on the back in pen that's already starting to fade where the plastic bends.
hey. it's me. i don't know if you'll get this. i was just thinking about that thing you said about the refrigerator hum. i looked it up. it's 60 hertz. which is also the frequency of the power grid. we're all vibrating at the same frequency and we don't even notice. okay. bye.