The sun is hot and it is the first day of February. I have taken off my fleece and my sweatshirt, standing in a pair of yoga pants and two shirts layered short-sleeve over long. I am talking to Lance, whose eyes are closing as we speak, disappointed that I haven't been able to find him a pair of cowboy boots, yet. He is sitting on a bench, his cane propped up against his backpack. Someone comes up to me and stands there, silent, until I turn around.
I haven't seen Aisa in months, maybe three or four. "Girl, you're filling out nicely," he says and laughs, nudging me. I smile tightly, shrug, "I'm just wearing tighter pants than usual." We make small talk. Lance falls asleep. I excuse myself, "It's good to see you looking well." Aisa tells me a bit about his condominium, and I go back to the office. On the way I steal glances at Rick who is ignoring me. For someone who is supposed to be in love with me, he sure hasn't gone out of his way to make eye contact in the past few days. I resolve to talk to him next week. I resolve to finally make him that mixed CD I promised. Rick is 58-years old and lives in a tent in a field with his cat. He loves Woody Allen. His vibrant energy revives me, so I really must make some time to talk to him on Monday. Unfortunately, today, it is time to go to our staff meeting. It is time to clear out the park.
Tonight, we will get into a heated discussion at the dinner table. I will drink more than a bottle of wine. We will go at each other, challenging fallacious statements. We will come to a mutual understanding, and then we will go to bed, almost six hours later. Tomorrow morning, we will wake up and I will be expected to start training for that half-marathon in May.
But with the hot sun on the first day of February, for a moment, even as I try to avoid Michael who just wants to talk about cars and clubs in his off-colored tuxedo shirt and skewed bow-tie, for a moment everything makes sense, and I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
