It is the same route every week day. From my apartment, through the park, to the office. So familiar that my bike could find its way without me.
A couple of days ago, I left my bike at Buddy’s place after a house party at his flat. Today, he’d brought it back to me at the office. “I parked it where you usually do” he says, then gives me a hug and hands over the lock keys. I thank him but it’s only when I prepare to go home that I realize he’d pumped the tires, adjusted the seat and cleaned up the brakes. The ride was effortless, almost ridiculous in its joy. I flew through the streets so fast, gliding with a grin on my face and my back bent forward, leaning into the speed.

Naively gliding, one small detail will change my day after I encounter him. The Hat Man.

After a night apart (self-imposed exile, really) Saturday had arrived, and with it, the conversation. The one I’d rehearsed in my head for weeks.
He’d been permanently stressed, chronically unavailable, and somehow convinced that being overwhelmed excused everything from forgetting plans to forgetting how to be present. I wasn’t asking for the moon. Just for him to show up. Ideally on time and emotionally conscious.

“Thanks, have a lovely evening,” I say to the taxi driver before my boots thud toward the oversized arched entrance door; late again, as usual. My work colleagues, some of whom have become good friends, know by now that I save my punctuality for official meetings only. As the elevator climbs toward the rooftop, I smile at the man riding with me, then take a deep breath, releasing the quiet thrill of a midsummer evening.