Saturday started with the kettle and a loose chair. The front leg had been rocking for a month. Today I wedged a folded matchbook under it and called that a repair. It holds if you sit still.
Later I opened the window. The street was all errands: a dog, a delivery van, someone laughing into a phone. I copied one paragraph from a book I already own into the back of a notebook, then crossed it out. The afternoon was wide and I left it that way.
The office lights stayed on after everyone else had gone, so I shut mine off and took the long way along the river. Bike lamps showed up before the bikes. A heron stood in the shallows and did not move when I stopped.
At the footbridge I turned yesterday's note over in my pocket and decided it did not need an answer. The water was high from the rain. I got home with wet cuffs and made toast.
The market was already packing up when the rain arrived, tarps snapping over the last crates of apples. I bought a small bag of the bruised ones they were about to discard and ate two on the walk home, standing under the library eaves until the shower thinned.
Inside, the reading room smelled like wet wool. I returned the novel that had sat on the nightstand for three weeks and left with nothing new. Some days the point is to put a thing back.