I try to remember the events of the day, like those of the night after I’ve woken up and noticed the sheet’s bunched up at the bottom of the bed, it’s late, it’s a sunny day, I’m alive, I have a name, an address—all the things you might forget in a dream.
The woman on the train, exasperatedly asking to be excused as she made her way through the crowd from the track side of the car to the open door. She seemed dissatisfied that everyone got out of her way.
The president of the agency, wandering through the halls on his phone, looking preoccupied.
The old hippie intellectual on the street corner, talking to a couple who could’ve been his friends, could’ve been strangers. I tried to listen in. He was talking about having witnessed something, some altercation maybe, in which someone started talking about “white privilege.” Then I got the walk signal and had to go.
Nothing really happened. Really.