Her shoelaces were untied and everything she had – all the bags, jacket, an orange, cell phone – it was all either in her hands or draped over her arms as she rushed out of the apartment. On the way out she almost ran into a man that was taking very long strides, but she ducked and did this half back-bend dodge under his arm and ran across the street walk lamp counting down 3…2…1.
In the span of seventeen steps she managed to consolidate all her stuff into one bag hanging cross-shoulder over her back. She felt vaguely proud of this gift. Hey, it might not win her any awards or a higher income, but she knew not everyone can consolidate while moving like she could.
Climbing the stairs up to a rooftop garden park. Sat on the bench then the bag flips around and she takes out something to write with.
list of complaints for the day:
- my shoes are wet
- i can’t find any hair ties
- my computer doesn’t work – i don’t know why. i’m complaining about both.
- coffee is too bitter
- my side hurts
She limited herself to five a day. From there, she tore off the piece of paper, ripped it into shreds and through it into the trash. She passed by five more people in the process of this.
Her hair was disheveled when she returned to work. She didn’t notice her reflection in the elevator mirror, but rather than the carpet was made off a pattern of concentric circle dots. Had this always been this way, she wondered.
When she sat down, she was lost into a sea of clacking keys and glowing screens. She had no idea what she was doing. Click. Click. Click. Don’t look at the clock until 3:15, THEN AND ONLY THEN LOOK AT THE CLOCK.
But none of it mattered anyway, because tomorrow was just another day. And she would still run down the street and have disheveled hair and brush it out of her face when the wind blew it in front of her eyes.