One Watch Today’s mistake is a jar of peaches. It sits on the parlor table, the halves inside plump with sunshine. Mr. Bell, who has un­expectedly come to visit, doesn’t seem to notice the jar at first. He stands by the hearth, too agitated by his enthusiasm to be seated. My fiancé, Harmon Bardsley, stands only to match him, but can’t keep his words apace. I leave my careful watch of their lips and look at the jar because of the word I’ve seen. Surely I’m mistaken. The men aren’t even looking at the jar, so why would they be discussing the peaches? Peach. Its shape floats on Mr. Bell’s mouth. The pinch of the p, followed by a rounded push of the lips, sending the last syllable hard across the tongue. My hand nearly reaches for my pocket, as if the feather from our lessons might still be found there. It’s been a long time since I thought of the feather. I would bal­ance it on my knuckles and make it quiver with the puff of my ps. Puh-puh-puh. I stop myself just in time, folding my hands against my skirts. Why has Mr. Bell come? For now, Harmon…