three dots …
– Revised

Whenever I open up and rinse a can of chickpeas, I find myself idly picking one up and and with two fingers swiftly slipping off its transparent skin—and then another—a satisfying sensation: soon I am engrossed in plucking off each of their slippery coats one by one. I know I have other things to do—chop sweet potatoes, for instance—my better judgement protests, but my hands are borne away, unheeding, until every last chickpea gleams pure kabuli-yellow, unrefracted by its natal cloak.

I am told that shorn chickpeas make the smoothest hummus. But I do not want the smoothest hummus; I want only to stand at the sink shelling chickpeas until the sun sets.