I’m at work. Sigh. But hopefully not for long. Driving through downtown everyone seemed unusually chipper on such a soggy morning. A father in a sideways baseball hat was leading is young daughter to dance class. Her pink tights exposed like flamingo legs under a baggy sweatshirt. They looked like such opposites. But I like to see men encouraging their daughters to such girlish pursuits.
The streets were bound by relationships. The karate shop was just about to open. A big father and a big son in red matching shirts were unlocking the doors. How much of what we love is handed down by our parents? Are passions inherited?
Work is weirdly quiet. Lights, TVs, computers, fans all left on overnight in a place that never sleeps. But I like being here when no one else is. When my typing and the air ducts are the only sounds. When the phone rings and I have no guilt when I don’t pick it up. When the scanner is low enough I can’t hear about someone jumping off the bridge or getting run over by a bus.
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