i check the office mail, usually after i eat lunch. i like the short walk & seize every opportunity to get out of the office.
my heels click rhythmically on the asphalt, beating out my particular tattoo (the singularness of which people recognize & remember as me)--until they don't. i look down. the tip of my stiletto is sinking into the innocuous rubber-like substance that fills in cracks, like quick sand.
fucking summer, i know you are here.