Nine moments after the question stopped being scary.
The season opener. Jan is back in Brooklyn three weeks. The trip already feels like something that happened to a slightly older friend. The notebook is being filled. The new wardrobe debuts here — in #01, in the light.
Bought the cardigan on a Wednesday.
Wore it on a Thursday. By Friday it had replaced espresso as the first thing. Now: tea, cardigan, counter, standing here before I'm anyone's anything. The light is the same light. Counter is the same. Hands holding the mug are the hands I've always had. The cardigan is rust. The water is the water. I am the difference.
The text came at 11 AM.
Ana, Tuesday dinner, three days' notice. I wrote yes before I thought about it. Wrote what should I bring after. Closed the phone. Went back to the tea. That was it. A year ago I would have written can we do next week and meant it kindly. Today I wrote yes. The yes went through the air and became a Tuesday.
The cardigan was from Daniel.
Daniel sends articles. Today he sent rust-colored wool and a note: saw this. thought of you. Two more sentences than Daniel usually writes. I called him. He picked up. Said did it fit. I said yes. He said good. The cardigan was an opinion my brother had. I am wearing it. Called him back two days later just to talk. Nineteen minutes. That is also new.
Sunday at four is its own weather.
First one: peace and tired. The Sunday before the snap: peace and heavy. The Sunday after the trip: peace and settled. This Sunday: peace and something small and lit. The Monday feeling is in the next room — always will be. But we've made our arrangement. Light is going. Tea's going. The cardigan is warm. I'm not anywhere else.
Four dollars at the bodega on Manhattan Ave.
The planner. Today I wrote in it. The week has Tuesday Ana, Wednesday Mom, Saturday class, Sunday Priya, Friday flowers. That last one is its own appointment. Not flowers for anything. Just flowers. The week is mine. I made it, in pencil. Probably will keep the planner. Probably will go to the things.
Eleven blocks home without headphones.
The city had a soundtrack going. A man selling roses from a bucket on the corner. Two kids running. A dog barking once. Wind doing the April thing. I heard all of it. Had been hearing none of it — earbuds in, volume at seventeen, every commute sealed. Walked the eleven blocks.
Greg's roots had gone around the old pot twice.
Bought a bigger one. Read about repotting. Followed the instructions. Apologized to Greg. Greg accepted by being uncomplaining. Patted the new soil down. Watered it. Told her the bigger pot was an upgrade — a word I've heard from real estate agents and used about my own life never. We've both been needing room. I think she's going to be fine. I think I am too.
Last year I didn't send emails because I was afraid.
Today I drafted one and didn't send it because I changed my mind. Read it twice. Closed the tab. Made tea. The not-sending was a decision, not a dodge. They look the same from outside. They are not the same inside. The difference between won't yet and won't ever — I can finally tell them apart. The tab is closed. The tea is the same tea.
The first line was three weeks old.
What now, sitting in ink. Today I wrote underneath it: what now is a curious question now. I have started to like the question. Closed the notebook at 9:22. Drank the tea. Sat with myself. I'm twenty-nine. Rust cardigan. Sun coming in. The cat being a small CEO on the chair. The question is, today, a friend. I didn't ask for that either.