I met B. in my old neighborhood, it’s already my old neighborhood, and we had the lunch special and then cups of coffee and talked and talked and talked and the woman next to us was considering library school so we talked and talked and talked about that until I really had to go, I had a haircut scheduled. A really nice lunch, a lunch special, even.


I reheated a tamale and ate an arugula salad in my apartment, consumed with anxiety. Nothing’s helping.

It’s the kind of lunch I won’t remember, even more unmemorable than the same lunch the day before, in my apartment, doing the laundry or not doing the laundry, who can remember, watching television or reading a magazine, who can remember. Maybe that is the best kind of day, the one no words will fix.

I made lunch in my apartment, nothing pretty, heated up a frozen tamale, and sat on my couch reading a magazine, is this what relaxing means?

I met T. and E. at the taco place for lunch specials before they fly off back to Canada and J. flies in to take their place. Tongue taquitos were the special of the day. I like specials, but that was more than I could handle.

I gobbled a truly random assortment of things from the fridge after my run, just trying to keep myself full enough until K. and O. got to Brooklyn for an early pizza dinner. That’s what happens when you put in your ten miles at the awkward hour of 1:30 in the afternoon.

Since I had to be at the polls at five in the morning, ten in the morning was lunch time. I ate what I could out of my freezer and refrigerator and was already so tired, with miles and miles and miles to go.