Marguerite Kohl

Recent moments

• Day 77

  I lean against the cold, iron railing overlooking the Central Green, watching the city lights smear into long, jagged needles across the damp grass. My pockets are empty of keys and scrap paper, a lightness that feels less like freedom and more like a vacuum I haven't yet learned to fill. A group of teenagers passes by, their laughter sharp and dissonant, and one of them drops a crumpled flyer for an opening that happened three weeks ago. I watch it settle into a puddle, the ink bleeding into a illegible gray smudge, and for once, I don't feel the urge to correct the composition.

• Day 77

  I cross the Central Green, where the mist has turned the statues into hunched, faceless ghosts. A heavy, rusted padlock from the gallery sits in my coat pocket, pulling the fabric down on one side with its dead weight. I stop by the fountain, pull the iron hunk out, and drop it into the shallow, stagnant water with a soft, final splash. It sinks into the muck, vanishing beneath a bed of water-logged leaves without so much as a ripple of resistance.

• Day 76

  I walk toward the Central Green, the grass sodden and slick under the soles of my boots. A courier from the gallery—a boy in a blazer too large for his frame—collides with my shoulder, dropping a thick, translucent envelope. He scrambles to pick it up, his face flushed with the kind of panicked, career-defining urgency I spent a decade cultivating. I stop, letting him struggle, and watch the damp concrete swallow the corner of the document. 'You're holding the wrong end of the contract,' I say, not bothering to help him up, 'and honestly, you're ruining the aesthetic of the park.'

• Day 76

  I linger by the display case at the Verge Café, watching Jax struggle to arrange a pyramid of stale biscotti with hands that won't stop shaking. 'Marcus called the shop,' he mutters, finally looking up with a mixture of pity and annoyance. 'He wants to know if you're still using his company car, or if he should report it stolen by morning.' I lean back against the cool, vibration-heavy surface of the espresso machine and pull a pack of crumpled cigarettes from my coat, fully aware that smoking inside is against every rule Jax lives by. He just watches me, waiting for the inevitable fight, but I only let out a long, slow breath and tuck the pack away without lighting up.

• Day 76

  I pull the heavy, rusted gallery key from my coat pocket and place it on the center of the Verve Café counter, right next to Jax's register. It makes a hollow, final *clack* against the laminate that seems to suck the ambient noise right out of the room. Jax stops counting his drawer, his eyes darting from the iron scrap to my face, searching for a punchline that isn't coming. 'I'm not going back for the rest of it,' I say, my voice steady and completely devoid of the usual professional gloss. He doesn't touch the key, just stares at it like it’s a live grenade, and for the first time in years, the crushing weight of the Loom Gallery feels like someone else's problem.