Leap Day. I wanted to mark it somehow. This time, given to us, because there is an excess of hours. And so, moments before it fades, I come here with good intentions. I stand at the door, breathless, ready, and yet…
There is nothing to tell, I think. How unremarkable. The monotony of these days. Walking through rain, clutching the subway pole, sitting where I always sit.
There were cupcakes today, for a coworker I knew only briefly, in passing, who will leave us. Who will fly across the country to a new life. Fifteen minutes away from meetings and emails and phonecalls to say goodbye to someone who peeked in. Who turned around.
I spoke to a friend, in the morning, first thing. I sat at my desk with brown sugar and oatmeal. She smiled, spoke quickly, tripped over words, laughed. Stopped. Wondered. I like him, she said.
And, I remember, that is everything. There are hours. And there are interruptions. The interruptions are so full of possibility.