Breakfast was warm, but the air between us felt a little sharp. I was told to use the kitchen toilet before the vacuum began, though it stayed silent for a while. A small coin of kindness — $1.40 for lunch — was pressed into my palm, wrapped in the word “troublesome.”
Outside, vehicles flashed their lights at me as I waited for the bus. The ride was crowded — a soft bump against a stranger, a misstep onto another’s shoe as I alighted, regret flickering through me. A man dropped something on the pavement; he bent and reclaimed it without a word. I crossed the road in a small run, took the lift, the stairs, and found my seat with a quiet “excuse me.”
On the shuttle, there was the gentle comedy of moments — a biscuit passed from one to another, a fist bump sealing the exchange. My chair jolted with a bump from behind; I let it pass.
By the time I reached work, greetings and silences shaped the space. Bags needed tying, fast and constant. My arm and elbow ached with each pull of the string, a steady throb under the rhythm of the task. I kept my pace, even when I fell behind, holding the day together with quiet determination.
