You know the quiet rage of a gap in the line? Maybe you're at Starbucks in the morning (I'm looking at you Market at 1st), or you're waiting for the bus, and the person in front of you is looking at their phone and doesn't shuffle forward. The gap, it grows. And the widening space sits on your chest, tightens your mouth until all you want to say is fuck--go! (The worst is traffic. The car in front of you just kind of stopped as if thinking about something more important than forward momentum. Do you do it? Tap your horn? Your hand itching to spit out its own manual-version of fuck--go!)
Because this is how I feel all the time lately. All the world a gap in the line, and I want to tap it on its shoulder, excuse me? Push it, really. Go! This waiting. I have my flight reservations--January 2--my hotel, though there are still a million tiny details to get done before I leave...the waiting. It's excruciating, really. The fact that it's all sitting out there just a few spots ahead. Soon it will be my turn, but for now I make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and put away the groceries, just standing here.
Meanwhile, Ozzy has decided he hates buttons. Won't wear anything with buttons which translates to an abundance of elastic waistbands and stretch, like a track suit that never sees the track. If I'm wearing buttons he recoils, then hugs me like a very uncomfortable man hugs another man. Buttons! He says the word with such derision, such absolute moral disgust that it has become my go-to swear word. Aw, buttons! My mouth full of clattering plastic and holes meant to fasten things together.
And so we wait.