Monday

I woke up unable to remember any dreams. But somewhere in my head was the thought that I had to find a screw for Rachel. A silly thought, I know, but I went down to the basement, to Logan’s workbench. He keeps things very neat. I admire that about him. I try to be neat, but too often I’m messy. If it were my workbench everything would be a jumble. On the edge of the shelf above the workbench a number tools fit neatly into clips. There is a screwdriver with an orange handle. I pull it out of the clip. It’s so clever, the way the clip holds it and releases it. I push the screwdriver back into the clip. Success! I take it out again. Now to find a screw. There is a cabinet next to the workbench, and inside are some boxes with nails and screws. I open one of the boxes and remove a screw. I thought it would be shiny but it’s dull. I haven’t turned on the workbench lamp, only the light at the foot of the stairs, so I take the screw and the screwdriver to the stairs. I don’t know why I don’t just turn on the workbench light. Oh, now I know, it’s because I have both hands full, one hand holding the screwdriver, the other holding the screw. I know I could have just put either the screw or the screwdriver on the workbench and turned on the light, but sometimes my thoughts are not logical. Not rational. Not well ordered. Anyway, while walking to the stairs the screw falls from my hand. It makes a tiny sound when it hits the cement floor. Not quite a metallic click. Tick. Then several smaller ticks. Then nothing. I squat down to see if I can find it. There it is.