It rains here every day. Not continuously — this would allow for a settling in, a coziness, a certain acceptance of the conditions. The clouds tease, which means beginning each day wondering if it will be that day that they will ease. The future is soaked with the conditional.

I roll on top of J’s chest to catch a glimpse of the light. Shadows. Good. “I think it’s going to be a nice day,” I say, absentmindedly. Trained in stable climates, I’ve developed a relationship with the sky that has honored a trust in this originary moment. The existential, “what to do” has been tempered by the weather’s consistency. It chooses and sticks to it, a decisiveness to which I’ve become reliant. “How can you predict the quality of the day just by looking out the window?” J asks, with utmost sincerity. I probably roll my eyes in the way that makes them smile. “The weather. I mean the weather.” But I do mean the day as well, realizing their contingency. “The day will be nice because the weather will be nice,” I revise, simply.

Walking into the kitchen, I can’t stop thinking about the French word “faire” its double meaning of doing and making. The word’s collapse of action and product feels liberating in a way that I can’t articulate. I convey this to Duchamp, who seems to spend most of the day making coffee, and he reminds me that he’s never made anything in his whole life; he’s only done things. I am silent for a time, inserting my coffee pod into the machine and staring as it dispenses my black, foamy livelihood. “Is this about the rain?” asks Duchamp. It is, but I don’t want to tell him that I can’t remember if it’s raining or crying. “I’m bothered by the speculative tense of the weather report” I offer. “Why can’t it just tell me if there’s movement downwards?”Moving his lips into the smirk of the canon, Duchamp places his hand on the back of my neck and whispers into my ear, “the future is an embattled realm — when and where it will cry has political significance. Also, the French lessons are doing you no good.” He leaves me by the window with my lukewarm coffee.

Back in my room, I announce to J, “I want to have a doing practice.” The statement deflates as I articulate it, ending up on the floor in a pink, rubbery mess. I move it into the corner with my foot. J looks at me with concern as the light drains from the sky, the window panes taking on the texture of bubble wrap. “I’m sure you’ll still have a nice day,” they present to me. In their hand, the phrase looks majestic and golden but it looks cheap when I put it around my neck. My reflection shows something made, which is unbearable, so I turn away. Even in the drained light, they are beautiful. I ask, “do you want to do anything?”

-Story was published in Maumaus Anthology 2025