Monday, July 17, 2017

Why We Write About Ourselves

Katie goes upstairs to talk to the woman helping her out with her business, and I wait downstairs with the bikes. The sun's almost gone down, and a wet breeze, still heavy with the humidity of the day, meanders down the street, barely cooling me off.

After about twenty minutes of waiting, I see a woman using a cane slowly making her way past the building, each step an exercise in patience and concentration.

I accidentally make eye contact and give her a small smile, and she smiles back, briefly, but even that little bit of frisson is enough: somebody saw me, and I saw her, and I belong here, and so does she.
One year ago: Oh, Those
Three years ago: I Have The Touch, Redux
Four years ago: Crazy From the Heat
Eight years ago: Word (actually, Excel)

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