Split Pea.

It's turned. Cold. And the news—the last time I talked about Eric Chilton, I had also been to The Brightwood—the news is getting keyed up. Now they think it may snow a little on Thursday. Now I know it won't. Still, it's nice to give The Triad's Best Weather Team something to do with its time.

Driving back west at dusk meant the sky running itself out from orange to purple, the whiskery trees reaching upwards, the bark black like ink. Cloudless. Silhouettes of water towers and whatever machinery is required at the cement plant and the overpass out 70 at the loop they're putting in, which is not yet a loop.

Split pea soup tonight with the lees of the standing rib roast we grilled last week. Throw the bones in and see what happens. Carrots and onions. Maybe some Jiffy cornbread. Maybe something to sip on while all that comes together. It turns cold and all the noise of robins and leafblowers comes to a full stop and the air goes still again, the dog goes a little stiff, the heater runs all evening. The robins have been shitting up the car doors. They perch there in front of the mirror, look at themselves, shit down the side of the car. Objects may be closer than they appear.

Quiet, quiet, quiet in here. The meatfest continues—AMR is a vegetarian—but even dragging the bones and roast ends out of the freezer for a soup I'd never otherwise get to make makes me miss her all the more.

At The Brightwood, Lucille wasn't in yet. Her husband let us in. You need beer? he said. I can get you beer. Liquor you'll have to wait fifteen minutes for. She ain't in yet, and I don't know about liquor.