The Tally

Inside the door there is a nail with a coat on it, and beside the nail, in pencil, tally marks in fives. They start at the height of your knee, go up past the light switch and around the window, and come down the other side. One mark for each night someone has stayed. The pencil hangs on a string, worn down to the length of a match.

You count a row with your finger and lose it. The marks lean every way. The oldest are small and upright.

On the counter are a stack of cream cards and a long pencil on a string. Beside them, on a hot plate, a pot of soup is still warm. The machine drops ice into the bin a few pieces at a time, and the chute is lit blue. The compressor hums, and the hum is in the floor. When you lay a hand on the counter, it is in your hand.

You take the short pencil and add one. It leans the way the last one does.