Zlaw’s Echo

In knee-high socks, shorts, and her largest and comfiest hoodie, Solène was considering a shoebox of memorabilia, on the kitchen counter in front of her, with a glass of red wine in her hand. When the microwave beeped, she put her drink down behind her, and went to retrieve her instant dinner from the machine. On her way back to her contemplation, she did sprinkle the cardboard plate with shredded cheese, to give it the slightest semblance of something home-made, but that was all the sophistication she granted her meal. Without taking her eyes of the pile of souvenirs again, she took a sip of her wine and then took out a fork from a drawer to plant it into her still fuming food. Her document-shredding apparatus had already been transplanted from the working area of her apartment to the kitchen, and it was now standing at the edge of the counter, next to the fateful shoebox. This was Solène’s ritual. She had come up with it fairly early in her life, and it had always hit exactly the s...