I ride the train home across the Manhattan Bridge, the sun glittering warm over the surface of the water, a guilty little thrill riding with me in my stomach. Katie said she'd be home later tonight, and I left work practically on time for the first time in weeks, so I'll get a few extra moments to myself to just think and write and be alone.
The guilt comes from saying "no" to the chat she sent right as I was leaving: "There's no way you wanna come pick me up at my office and commute home with me and my wards do you?"
I hardly ever say "no" to her, but as the subway car gently rocks with our descent back underground, and I dream of my notebook and pen, my couch and cat, I think, maybe it's healthier to say a little "no" every once in a while, than to have the "no"s build up, to where you say no just because you didn't say it before, and the weight of all the unsaid "no"s has made you heavy and sad.
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