Gospel of Thomas, Saying 70

"It'll all come out eventually," she says over her shoulder to my co-worker as she's walking away.

I realize I haven't been listening to their furtive conversation. Are they talking about me?

All my sins, all the lies I've ever told, all the slacking and the half-assed work, everything shoved under the carpet: will it all come out eventually?

Voyeurism

The train rattles out of the tunnel and up the approach to the Manhattan Bridge, passing between apartment buildings flanking us on either side. I find myself, as I often do, peering out of the train, through the open, uncurtained windows as we pass, into the tidy, well-lit interiors, hoping to see naked people, or, perhaps, a couple having sex.

I cringe in momentary shame as I catch myself in my perversity, but then I stop. If I did happen to catch someone in a moment of indiscretion, they would either be doing it on purpose to feed their own perversity, knowing that someone might see, or doing it with total indifference, uncaring who saw.

Last Day of Vacation

After dinner, before bedtime, there's this lull where we see the hours drop off, one by one, as the clock inches us toward Monday. We are neither in the glory of the weekend, lush with time and full of promise, where we spend the moments like there'll always be more, nor in the final rush of the downward slope, where speed is sufficient to carry us through.

I get my hair cut, walk the dog, cook dinner, play a video game, watch some television. It's raining: we open a window, smell the wet air, clean up our plates, take a shower, try not to think about tomorrow, think about tomorrow, try to get some sleep.

The World We Live In

A guy by the coffee truck drops his wallet, or is it a pamphlet? My natural instinct, of course, is to say something, to help, maybe I'll pick it up and hand it to him, really seal the deal, and he'll be grateful, which will sustain me all the way through this dark and rainy day.

But he didn't actually drop anything at all, as it turns out to just have been a wet, fallen leaf that hitched a ride on his boot.

I think, "Gosh, I should write about that for my four each day," but then I just turn it into a tweet.

All One Moment

We sit in the window at the tea shop, twinkling Christmas lights framing our view of a gray Greenwich Village street fading into dusk, when the carols and seasonal music are replaced by Nat King Cole singing of fascination. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, and I wonder out loud if it's possible to feel now (in the present, 2015) the way that people felt then (in, say, 1932) when they felt good.

Continuing the thought out loud, though, I say, "Maybe it's like Christmas, the way that all of those moments are sort of linked together, so that when you feel good now, it's the same thing as feeling good then, and there's no separation between now and then."

All of those Christmases, strung together on a single wire, like little lights, a single continuum of joy, each separate, each the same, all part of a single line that trails into the past and off into the future, and where we sit in the now, a single light of happiness burning, doing our part.

Salty Teeth

Maldon salt is really just sea salt, but the way they process it makes it come out in these delicate little step pyramid shapes that are super crunchy. The smoked kind, which I prefer because it has this extra umami flavor that's somewhat harder to come by for a vegetarian, is dried over burning oak giving the translucent crystals this lovely brownish hue.

I've eaten salt, all by itself, for years, since I was a child, really, but I mention the Maldon salt because it happens to be my favorite right now.

About once a month, usually while eating salt and feeling it crunch between my teeth, I think about how I've never had any cavities, and how the bacteria that cause tooth decay probably can't live with me eating salt and basically curing the inside of my mouth like a piece of jerky.

Almost Every Day

"What are some of your favorite memories from last year?" she asks. 

"A lot of the same as yours," I say. "The bedouin camp in the Sahara, London, spanish moss by the beach, The Little Red Lighthouse - all those things. 

"But you know," I add, "I've really enjoyed writing my four-a-days everyday."