The calendar hangs around my neck, a nagging shrew. I see the face of my tenth-grade geometry teacher, Mrs. Barnes, crow-nosed, reflected in the shrink wrap, and my mug, too. Show your work, show your work—caw, caw, caw. Most days 68 was going to be as good as it got—my future was not going to be in math.
But I can count.
I have a thumbtack and a thumb. And a kitchen wall, with sixteen tiny holes. I tally them, again and again. Yep, 16. And yet I hesitate, assessing my universe on that pale, blue wall, which I rent. I cannot connect these points try as I might.
I receive a calendar in the mail every year from my credit union—like mechanized clockwork. Whoever runs that shop must have their shit together. But the calendar lies to me. Every month a reminder…
I won’t slalom in January.
I won’t buy chocolate hearts in February.
I won’t wade a thawing stream in March.
I won’t waltz through soft puddles in April.
I won’t plant a thing in May.
I won’t drive with the top down in June.
I won’t light a fuse or sparkle in July.
I won’t camp under the stars in August.
I won’t watch a whale breach in September.
I won’t carve a pumpkin in October.
I won’t walk a frosty trail in November.
I won’t go caroling in December.
“Excuse me, sir…”
Deep in my pinhole thoughts, I realize the man sitting directly opposite me on the bus is speaking. I hate the bus yet here I am, every day at 7:45 a.m. and 5:15 p.m. My commute smells like body wash, old sweat and curry—and packs and packs of cigarettes. The ever-present Could Have It chlamydia ad doesn’t add much to the experience, either—See Your Doctor! Maybe I should be standing?
Are you talking to me?
The man is impeccably dressed. He’s wearing a dark blue suit, a pink tie, the color of Coho salmon, and a shirt so white it vibrates. He is clean-shaven, his shoes sparkle, as do his green eyes.
Nothing is so fatiguing as the eternal hanging on of an uncompleted task.
What?
Nothing is so fatiguing as the eternal hanging on of an uncompleted task.
The bus lurches to a stop. He stands, extends his hand, and wishes me well on my journey. Just like that. The door opens with a heaving, listing swoosh. I dig my feet in, preparing for the recoil. I don’t even realize I do it. It’s instinct. Exiting, he then turns his head to me—he’s perfectly balanced, an alien hovercraft.
There are more than two stops on this bus. You know that, right?