Bins at the curb, I pause in a night of deep quiet and catch the thought that no-one else is here.
Sleepy suburban street rarely parties; nights are seldom wild around here. Yet silence catches with surprise: no-one walking home from shops, no night-time joggers, no cars coming home. No feet sharing this curb with mine.
And this weekly domestic act becomes a moment of strange resistance, a heartbeat-long yearning to see other neighbours lugging their bins, to duck down the street to No.16 and say, "This package is yours. The postie dropped it here by mistake." But it's after 8 and I've no mask; the edge of this block is the wall for my feet.
To love my neighbour tonight is to go back inside and pray.