the counters

they counted everything—the cards in my wallet—pumps of disinfectant at the door—they noted all the hairs on my wife’s head—her heartbeats as we ambled by—no doubt they recorded each sincere gesture of love—the times our hands touched—our scattered mask clad kisses between shops—even the number of loops I tied her shoelace with—they do their job as a tape measure does its—simply—efficiently—finding the wall’s centre to hang a perfect picture—which is odd when you think about it—when I was young—all the frames were crooked

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