Woke up an hour late, rainy day; scrounged for umbrella, found one I’d stolen from the lost & found at my office; walked to the coffee shop and opened a Word doc to begin writing but read emails instead; rain stopped; walked to the office twenty minutes late; found our intern standing outside waiting for me holding his bag lunch; gazed up and down the street for my car — I often park it near the office; didn’t see it, panicked; let the intern into the building and then paced around and around the block thinking it’s been towed, it must’ve been towed; barely noticed the increasing rain; re-traced my week and remembered that I’d parked my car in Uptown three nights before because I’d been drinking wine in Becca’s front yard until 3am; began to notice the increasing rain splattering my glasses; remembered I’d forgotten my stolen umbrella at the coffee shop; walked down Clark St. towards Becca’s house — an empty stretch by the graveyard and construction site, no one around — and yelled: I AM IN CONSTANT SHAME MODE.
And then I looked left and saw the three people at the bus stop across the street, staring at me.
Found car; apologized to car; flicked on wipers; drove to coffee shop. Fetched umbrella. Began the day.