Blue

So, Einstein (I say to Myself), why do you think this jug holding your fig cuttings is sitting in a puddle of water?

Hm, says Myself, it hasn't rained...In fact it's a sunny, blue day. A bit like the jug.

Indeed, I say.

It must be leaking, says Myself.

Wow, I say.

But...did the wind blow it over? The one that railed in the night?

It's still upright and where you left it, I say.

Myself picks it up. A long hairline crack running top to bottom. Oh, says Myself, and a small white chip of porcelain on the stone table.

Hm.

Could the wind that lifted a deck chair from the roof have jarred it against the wall? says Myself.

Look inside, I say.

(Looks inside.)

Ice!

Ice. What happens to water below freezing. Your figsticks have been out here overnight and it is freezing, as you well know, since you shuffled off to the gym late yesterday wearing sweats in 12'F/ -11'C weather. What did you think was going to happen???

I didn't, says Myself.

My point, I say.

It was my favourite Cornish Blue jug, says Myself, sadly. From Dean and Deluca.

It was your only Cornish Blue jug, I say. From Dean and Deluca.

My thoughts are wheeling pigeons, individuals peeling off and taking flight alone while the flock follows the white stick being waved by the man on the roof of the brownstone on Henry Street

I leave doors open, or locked with keys in the outside, lose knives small and large, and throw away cellphones.

But those are other stories.