I stopped in the middle of my walk home from my French lesson tonight, remembering that I am out of milk. This is patently untrue, of course--I have milk, it's just gone sour from all of the days and weeks of not-being-home. I wasn't sure if it was worth it to walk back to the corner store; I had planned on making cookies but I was tired and tired and tired. It has been an awfully long couple of weeks.
You've got me all unsettled, you know? I never know what's coming next and what I want most is to stand on your toes and slow dance in the kitchen. I keep ignoring phone calls from people I don't want to talk to. I am being impolite and occasionally shrill.
While I stood on the sidewalk, dithering, a truck drove past and honked. I doubt that they were honking at me but I was startled by the noise and stumbled backwards and landed awkwardly against the hill behind me. I slid down the incline to rest on the sidewalk and recover my composure, and right next to my hand--centimeters from being squished--was a perfect bright white flower.
The thing is, you know, that I still believe in magic.