At lunch I come home to check on the progress of our HVAC installation. Across the middle of our house ductwork blocked the way, swallowed the rooms. (“Space worms!” says Joe. “Sculpture installation?” says Donna. “Cat tunnels,” says Kristin. Thank you, Facebook.) A man stood in the hall and snaked it up into the attic (the attic where we are told a rat had chewed through electrical wire, leaving it raw and dangerous). I hovered in my cold kitchen and ate the lunch of a twenty year old — pasta tossed with sauce of indeterminate age from the fridge, an egg boiled alongside the pasta, genoa salami I peeled off in pieces while I waited for the water to boil. The workers tromped their heavy boots across the floors. They kept their distance.
January 21, 2015