One Tuesday, the cube sat untouched. Coles stared at its perfect geometry. He thought of the refinery’s warehouse: stacks of bags, each holding thousands of cubes. He thought of the foreman who used to drop three cubes into his thermos, stirring with a grease-stained finger. He thought of the day the refinery closed, and how the workers had poured bags of sugar into the river—the water turning milky, then clear, as if nothing had happened.
“I’m saving it,” Coles replied.
But saving wasn’t his way. He was an accountant of loss. He knew that sugar cubes, left in the open, absorb moisture from the air. They soften. They crumble. They become a gritty heap of what they once were. sugar cubes coles
That night, Coles dreamed of the river. He waded in, and the water was sweet. Cubes floated past him like ice floes. He tried to catch one, but it melted on his palm. When he woke, his hand was clenched into a fist. One Tuesday, the cube sat untouched