I don’t know, I say.
We waited so long in the café. The waitress had her apron on inside-out. You took pristine paper napkins and folded them into your pocket. The croissant wasn’t warm, your toast came without jam. We had the conversation with our eyes and fell a little in love with her, our inside-out waitress. A tip for all the tenderness she aroused and the white napkins fluttering to the floor as you stand to dig out your change.
I smooth and fold them like pages, like sheets, like all the days and tuck them back into your pocket.
I don’t know how not to do this, I say.
Do you see me? I don’t say.
‘Accretion’ has a number of meanings. In biology it refers to a growing together of parts that are usually separate. It is used differently and more poetically in this article by Christopher Andreae: ‘ … the accretions of paint that had buried the door’s details like snow over a garden.’