The fountain-pen shop opened a harbor no wider than a blotter. By ten o'clock the ink had lined up in boats the size of apple seeds, each one holding a tiny oar.
We asked outside, near the flower stall. A man with a grocery list said he had waited while a boat sailed up the nib and asked the paper if it was ready. "My letter wanted a comma, not a splash," he said, and the geranium on the sill seemed to agree.
The keeper of the pens described the rule as if it were ordinary weather. Ink boards a boat, drifts toward the nib, and nods to the page. If the page nods back, the boat may come ashore and leave exactly one comma. A second mark has to wait until tomorrow, so the sentence can catch its breath.
A day later the same page was still on the counter, a little proud of its pause. The boat came back only to wave, then slept in the bottle until the next letter needed a rest.