The Burning Question

Tuesday, not-even-morning

For the first two hours, it smells like a really good chunk of steak roasting on a spit. After that, I close the window because the wind changes and I’m taking in smoke.

I pull the drapes closed as well. I don’t want to look at Yosef Schonzeit, disheveled from the sleep they must have hauled him out of, shoulders slumped as the fire brigade wind up their hoses and drive off. It’s him in the dark, with a shell left after decades of work.

I glower at the sudoku in front of me.

Sudoku and omega-3 and -6, never miss a day. Just to make sure my brain is functioning well enough not to land me in places I refuse to think about. But it’s sluggish after the night’s drama, and the day hasn’t begun yet.