Yesterday I waited at the bus stop for six whole minutes. Remembering what Mrs. O’Leary had said, I scratched an X on the back of my left hand with a thick and slightly dry red marker. It was raining and I didn’t have an umbrella.
Tonight I am running towards a humbled half-off bookstore. In the distance there are joyous screams of children. I forget to look both ways and avoid a close encounter with a cement truck that brakes for me. My eyes are fixed on this bookstore’s proud and sturdy Corinthian columns, which are wonderful for snaking through. My legs refuse the soreness of running, for an even-keeled urgency thrusts them in a mission so classified, even I know nothing of it. It is better this way. Before I collapse from exhaustion, I glance at the back of my hand, and the red X is gone.