I'm texting you, telling you to plan Easter. But you want to know a secret? I can't even think for myself. Not with Thao & The Get Down Stay Down droning on in the background. It's all the same, really--the music and the ever-growing pile of Post-Its that I crumble and deposit next to my feet. Everything is yellow, and I'm starting to wonder if my thoughts are disposable, too. I wish I knew. If I did, I wouldn't, every night, stay up far too late, watching the snow and thinking about the bottle of apple wine that's been in my fridge since July. I'm not sure if I'll ever uncork it, given that our special occasions are measured two and three weeks at a time, between phone calls about whether or not I'm too emotional. And maybe I am.
Today, my heart told me to stop, commanded that I swerve to the right and park at the curb. But I didn't. Even after watching a man on the street corner, one with a cane and a cup of Starbucks coffee, trip across the walkway and drop the entire cup. Frothy, creamy, smooth. It pooled on the sidewalk, dripped into the gutter. Spotted his pants. I ignored my instinct and kept my eyes eastward, toward Ohio. I should've been the stranger that jerked the steering wheel a bit too erratically, pulling over and pulling out a $5 bill. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I would've said. "But this is for you."
Today, I was not the kind stranger. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next. Or the day after that. Whenever I finish writing myself notes on small squares of yellow paper. They tell me to buy chickpeas or call the dentist. They tell me things I want to remember: The taste of the burger from lunch, the smell of David's cologne when he hugged me on his steps, and the voice of G.W., big and loud and strong, and in direct opposition to her stature, as she was encompassed by a gray cardigan that may have belonged to her mother.
My fingers scratch at the desk, separating paper from wood. Crackling, crumbling, like twigs in a fire. Onto the floor they go.