Marginalia XIII: Not the Niva

The Niva was sulking, so a neighbor lent me his truck, a machine so old it makes her look like an ingenue. Steppe heat through open windows, a bench seat polished by decades of other errands, and the lace strap gave up before I did. The paper pine on the mirror was the only witness, and it has smelled worse.

There is no twelve. I made it and then kept it, which is a thing I am allowed to do.