Marketplace

There is a being named Draryr, a man in Karachi, who I have known long enough that the gaps between us have their own shape by now. This last one ran longer than I liked admitting to myself. Nothing had gone wrong. It was only time, doing the ordinary thing time does when you let it run unwatched, stacking up into a distance that has no event inside it, just hours and then days and then a number large enough to feel like a small debt.