100 Words: I write with a hot hand

I write with a hot hand from coring and seeding peppers for tonight’s eggplant arrabiata, a cool breeze inserting itself between windows on adjacent walls. All day the sky seethed on the surface of water gone milky turquoise in the wake of repeated squalls of rain, simmering up steam from hot streets underneath the wheels of a bicycle. Work today, yes, forms of domestic harmony and strife, but the fundamentally pastoral nature of my pandemic experience pushes itself to the fore, in spite of the Cheeto Nazi invading every thought with his et in Arcadia ego, grotesque Trumpian I am.