It was Sunday afternoon.

I cleaned the kitchen floor. Then I cleaned the rest of the kitchen.

The counters. The stove. The sink. The cabinet doors. The floor again.

When I finished, the room looked different. More exact. Every surface had regained its original function. The sink was empty. The counters were clear. The dishes stood in the rack, wet and orderly, drying in the afternoon light.

I sat cross legged on the floor and looked out the window. The parking lot had not changed. The same cars occupied the same spaces. The same trees stood beyond them. Nothing moved except the light.

Above me, an LED strip ran across the ceiling, producing an even white light. But the sunlight entering through the window had a different quality. It struck the glass, the water, and the wet dishes at precise angles. Reflections beautiful and blurry. Small fractures of light moved over the metal sink and the edges of the plates.

I had sat down to get ideas. Then I realized that. So I tried not to get ideas. I looked at the glass of water on the counter. Light passed through it and broke into shifting patterns.

It is Sunday afternoon.

For several minutes, nothing happened. Then I began to notice everything again.