08: day one

Took it at 6:50 am. Writing this at 9:40 pm. That's the whole entry, basically, but I said I'd log so I'm logging.

Thu 4/2, 7:39am, corridor. Four doors. Clock seven slow. Crack 4:30 to 10:15.

Thu 4/2, 7:45am, fixture 14. Nothing. 16 has the molded nails.

Thu 4/2, 2:10pm, the back. Sixty feet and a left turn. Receiving. Dave.

Good day. Quiet. I did the spring transition on the front tables and it looks right, it looks like a store, and I ate lunch at lunch. My manager said I seemed more like myself. I said I'd been fighting something. Which is true, I guess.

For the record, because I'm keeping records: the bag was on the counter with the receipt stapled to it, picked up 4:06 pm, and the pickup line has her whole name on it, Katherine Anderson, which I'd never seen written out before. I'd only ever known her as Kate. The pharmacy makes you show ID. That's all that is. I'm noting it because I said I'd note things.

I read 05, 06 and 07 this morning on the bus. I'm not going to delete them. But I'm also not going to pretend I know who that is. The cosmos. A jury. A lonely with teeth. I sat there on the 14 with my coffee reading about how I'd been swallowed whole by entropy in a hallway at work and I felt embarrassed for a person, and the person was me, and I couldn't get the two of us to line up.

I think I was just tired. A week without sleep and without the pill and you'll see the hall run long. That's not a mystery, that's a Tuesday.

The stranger was real, though. I'll give it that. Somebody at the bus stop said something to me. I don't know what it meant.

Kate asked how the first day back was, and I said good, and she said "good," and that was it. Normal. She had her hair up and was making tea and she looked like a person who lives in my apartment.

Corridor tomorrow. Four doors. I'll write four doors.