Step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back. The only vestige of my childhood OCD. Sometimes I think idly, ‘I should work on this.’ But I don’t. I banished all of it more than a decade ago, except for this. I mistake it for part of me, like the Hallmark card that so perfectly expresses the sentiment you never thought to feel.
“Happy Tuesday,” says my bus driver, with a too-wide smile. He has seven greetings for each week, or maybe five if he’s off on weekends, and he says them all like it’s the first time.
I’d forgotten about this guy and I’d forgotten about the old man who sits in the front and totters like a duck and covers his cataracts with a pair of women’s sunglasses that I gave him on a blindingly sunny day last April. April before last. I’d forgotten him, too.
Ten cold months of just me and the frosty breath of Freon-cooled air.