I’m doing dishes in my bra. This is half of a sign. You lean in the doorway, so I slowly undress. Your legs are lean and white on the kitchen tiles. You are weaving your fingers, which are numerous, into this, which is not a sign. Which is lugged on the stove like a grocery bag, ordered, purporting nothing I can think of save the picture of an orange tree that sags, which has been built and lived in.