I woke to a black cat's balding ears against my chest and 6 a.m.'s refugee stars. My tongue was ringed in strawberries and yogurt as the sun rolled and tugged at my long thrift store skirt, turning it from black to blue and flowered satin. Night moths dive chalky into my coffee and now the air in my throat is gray as a cave. The sun is a peach and the sky has the texture of chai around the swollen tufts of clouds. Tuesday pulled on her hair-ribbons on the bus seat in front of me. It is her birthday too.

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