Small World

Six forty.

It should be another mellow day today. At the store, one customer was brash enough to bring his dog inside the building when the sign clearly says no pets allowed. Thomas didn’t say anything to him; I think he was afraid. He tends to let people walk on him and doesn’t assert himself with them. He’s very young, inexperienced, and not tough enough on people, even when they trample his rights. That’s the way I was with my psychiatrist before I learned that I had the option to fire him. I can’t think of anyone who’s giving me a hard time today; they leave me pretty much alone. I remember the night when I began seriously contemplating the switch to another service. And not long after that I quit drinking… The “anarchist” neighbors are putting out their trash for pickup. It’s not a garbage day for me. I can also remember when, twenty years ago, Betty, the owner of the same house, died and her son had to take care of business. His son Jeremy happened to be the friend of someone I knew, and he played the bass guitar. Small world.

Quarter of eight. The sun is coming up behind my head and shining on my iPad. It has a lot of resistance from the trees across the street and my maple in front. But like truth and justice it finally makes it through, if only temporarily. It’s like playing the paper, the scissors, and the rock. There’s an antithesis to everything, and nothing is forever.

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