Yesterday felt like walking across a street and thinking for one very brief half of a quarter-second about a guy you know who likes to fly-fish, then half-turning and seeing a man in a blue button-up shirt, but only noticing the blue, then hearing your name—then being hugged in the middle of the crosswalk by the guy who likes to fly-fish (because he just got off work and his bus stop is just across the street), then walking with him—up the block. And everything (the sidewalk, the buildings, the trees, your lungs, your stomach) is in a cloud of figurative butterflies—the small white kind with the light gray spots.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
What yesterday felt like:
Like leaving your apartment at the exact right time, around 1:43pm. Like you arrive at your building downtown, just in time—2:05pm. Like an afternoon spent listening to music and grading papers. Like deciding—I'll just finish this last one, then I'll go for a walk & eat my sandwich. Like, There isn't any rush. Like packing up your things, stopping for a drink of water, taking the elevator down 4 floors. Like taking the time to put some things in your car, then walking out of the parking garage structure at maybe 5:09 pm with a peanut butter & jelly sandwich in a plastic bag in one of your hands: