Marlene Counts to Seven

By midafternoon, Marlene had counted seven books on the side table, seven tassels along the cushion’s edge, and seven leaves on the plant beside the window.

She sat a little straighter.

Seven again. The room, which had spent all morning being furniture, appeared to have developed an opinion.

She counted the bright patches on the floor. Seven.

For a moment she considered photographing them. There would be something satisfying about arranging the evidence in a neat square: a number returning, a message almost legible. Seven already had the week behind it, and all those old stories. It hardly needed her living room as a reference.

Still, she began looking for another seven.

That was when she stopped and laughed. Not at the number. At the speed with which she had promoted it from a total to an adviser.

She leaned sideways. Behind the plant’s pot, an eighth leaf pressed against the glass.

“All right,” Marlene said. “You can just be a plant.”

She left the books uncounted a second time. The light shifted; two bright patches joined into one. Nothing had been promised, and nothing had gone wrong.

For the rest of the afternoon, the room was allowed to contain things without meaning her.