podeamThe time it takes for the horn to blare.
I’m scurrying, printing schedules and papers and documents and speeches and notes and cases, and reading the schedules and papers and documents and notes (but no, not the cases just yet).
Tiny scratches of ink, squeezing four pages on a single side of a paper, double-side printing, save the trees! But it’s all right, really, that the text is tinier than most periods period. Because it matches my handwriting, period.
I’m panicking, checking and rechecking everything I have. Neat little piles that become messy piles after I try neaten them out, looking at the weather and the distance and the little fiddly things that tickle the side of your hips when you wear a pair of jeans that are just a little too snug.
I’m leaving for New York in the morning, to pretend to be grown-up. While pretending to be young and bold.
I look at my schedule and look at my calendar and look at myself. It looks like I haven’t left much time for New York in New York.
Still. I’m off to New York in the morning.
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