I lay my pen on the table and play with the lid. I suck it in such a way that I form a little vacuum, and the lid clings to my top lip and dangles like a christmas tree decoration, or a misguided limpet on a dinghy, or a daughter saying goodbye to a leg that she knows she won’t see again for a long, long time. I trail my gaze up to the window and through the glass and slide it through the air. The evening autumn sun glitters through twinkling branches of varying wisdom, some trembling at the acceptance of their fate, a kaleidoscope of layers of red and orange and still-green, and my lip begins to hurt, and I push off the lid with my lower jaw and it falls to the page, splattering a tiny amount of residual ink.