The oil drips slowly from the avocado’s husk, catching the late afternoon dust motes that drift across the damp butcher block. Care must be taken when separating the peel; the tiny, perfect clock hands etched into the skin seem to tick against the grain, marking time that should not be measured this way. I set the oily seeds in a small pile near the half-used box of matches, noting the faint, metallic scent of oxidation that lingers in the air. The ritual requires the knife to move with absolute precision, treating the overripe fruit like a volatile specimen. It is simply a matter of domestic order, nothing more, though the way the hands align—always pointing toward a moment just passed—suggests a persistent, quiet accounting.
static · calm