As I stepped out the door, the corner of my eye caught something, and a thin spool of light purple coffee was unthreading itself from the Styrofoam cup.
I did a double-take, and of course, it wasn’t coffee, purple.
It was my headphones, dangling down from where I held them in my hand.
The hand that happened to share a cup of coffee at the moment.
So I hadn’t done that thing where you check your watch and spill your coffee all over your lap.
But I had.
Because it was just barely 7 o’clock. And I hadn’t had time to process normal thoughts, much less open my mouth and talk to someone in such a way that would enable my voice not to be as croaky as the Grim Reaper.
October 8, 2016
Pittsfield, Massachusetts
pigeonhole 