Temporary

by Hilary Leichter

My new mates carry weaponry in varying degrees: a dagger here, a pistol there, a cannon on occasion. This is a relief. The worst kinds of offices are the ones where no one can tell who’s in charge.

“Working remotely is what we call being dead.

a fresh pot of coffee without credit is like a love note in your locker—it’s just magic, and if you take credit, you might as well not have made any coffee in the first place, at all, not ever, never! It’s like, What, you want a medal for making coffee?

I think of my many available selves, coagulated and discrete, compromising themselves for one another.

Twenty years on, someone might be more my current self than I ever could have been.

Just because something is familiar does not mean it is mine.

“I’m going to marry the International Space Station,” I said.

There is certain work that cannot be done well and cannot be done poorly. It can only be done or undone.

I want the defiance of a life spent almost in touch.

She fell from the husk of a meteor and glowed with no particular ambition. They had to pin her down so she would not float away, so very much distracted was this new kind of soul, so subject to drift.

When everyone is gone, it doesn’t matter who came first, who was original, who was not.

Amazing how the sun continues to set, how I remain.