I spill breakfast down my front and watch it slop onto the floor.
It happens sometimes, usually half a second before I walk out the door.
Okay look fine it happens every morning.
I wonder how I can be classified as adult.
Middle-aged women make small talk on the train.
Chirping like little birds.
Yes, much too nice to spend at work.
One goes on about bin day and recycling and yellow lids.
The other is uncomfortable and wants to look out the window in silence.
It all ends at Newtown with: Yes, we are very, very lucky.
I agree in my head.
A man at work clears his throat loudly.
I JUMP out of my SKIN.
Once at work a (different) man had a violent seizure.
I thought he was dying of a heart attack right there in front of me.
I froze, deeply horrified.
Now every time someone makes that noise with their throat – I JUMP out of my SKIN – because they are probably about to have a fit.
Maybe even die.
I think about the fries and mayo we shared while mooching through Amsterdam at dusk that time.
It was a good mooch.
We were glowing and our chests swelling and if we had a collective aura it would have been the rosiest, warmest red.
But now it leaves me deflated because I am convinced I will never, ever have fries that good again.