The chair, a simple four-legged wooden one the kind I sat on for most of my youth, dragged me all the way over the thick carpet in the office to Rosario Dawson’s cluttered cubicle. I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet so I felt a bit embarrassed about just having woke up while she had already been on the job.
The heat and humidity had been suppressing just about any initiative to make good on all the ideas I had been accumulating, and even with my subconscious prodding me to complete the one about the chair we saw while walking to the store, it took the return of a few cooler nights before I finished the page in his journal—not that he’d notice; my hope was that it’d inspire him to make the time in his busier schedule to commemorate moments like these, however regular.
Leave a Reply