I biked home tonight, a muggy at-dusk ride in an airy sleeveless black dress, and on my fast bike — I will race you! — I felt at home with wind and speed. But as soon as I locked the bike to the fence, my brain started whirring again.
I wasn’t always so distractable. I used to be there with spit-shined shoes when the clock struck the appointed hour. Or at least, I remembered your birthday, didn’t cancel plans because I forgot to look in my planner, and mailed all my credit card payments on time. For the past few months, since I tossed my stuff in boxes (ok, since 9 of my friends tossed my stuff in boxes) and moved everything to a new apartment that I didn’t live in until three months later… I’ve been less with-it.
I locked the bike to the fence and approached my front door, thinking about this, thinking how do I explain what happened to my spit-shined shoes, my ability to appear at our appointed hour? when I thought: where the hell is my front door key? I flipped through my eight keys (work keys, Kate and Joe’s key, bike key, car keys….) until I realized that the shiny brass key with the straight section in the center was the key to my old apartment, and a different key would open this door.