I'm a little lost today.  A little tired.  A little broken.

I wake up before dawn and flip through the calendar a few times, counting the days and wishing that tomorrow would come a little faster.  The days swim and divide as I think about them.  Monday mornings and Sunday afternoons.  Cold December and hot July.  I wonder if February ever feels miserable because she will never reach her thirtieth day.  Twenty-eight, sometimes twenty-nine.  But never thirty.

But then I think that most people don't feel miserable until they know that they're missing something.  Only when things slip from between their fingers do people remember to miss them.  February doesn't miss a day, she just never had one.

As I get dressed, the idea travels into the back of my mind and wonder if I was ever really miserable.

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The seven o'clock bus ride to the studio is long and tiresome.  I'm standing again.  Rigid body against body as I clutch the handrails with one hand.  The man beside me smells of smoke and raw coffee.  The pads of his fingers are creased and heavy.  I imagine him with a guitar slung over his shoulder or a loaded gun balancing between his fingers.

The windows are fogged with fallen rain and everything passes in a tempered blur.  The shadows of silver buildings whip by as we chug down the road at a less than sublime pace.  The driver glares at me through the rearview mirror when I take photos of a kissing couple.  

I get off at the stop between the abandoned supermarket and funeral home, walking the half-mile the rest of the way to the studio.  My shoes dampen in the sidewalk puddles while my mind wanders through the fog.  Everything moves slowly.  Men walk with their collars pulled up to the chin and their hands in the pockets of their overcoats.  I wonder what they're hiding in those pockets.

My mind is closed as I walk.  The only sounds I recognize are my own footsteps tapping into the asphalt road.  The wind sneaks under the sleeves of my sweater and I welcome it.  I trudge past the library, the courtroom, and the public jails, wondering what it would be like to spend a day in one of those places, rather than the studio.  

When I reach the end of the street, I step off the curb without thinking twice.  The street lights burn under the dusk of the fog, and out of the corner of my eye, I see an angry car coming my way.  Unstoppable. My mind says to run but my heart says it's coming too fast for me to even think of escaping.  I freeze with fear and ignorance. My heart is beating so slowly.

The car is ten feet, seven feet, five feet, three feet, away.  I shut my eyes, comfortably.  As if this feeling of colliding with death were something I should get used to.

I squeeze my camera between my fingers, praying silently that it will last even if I don't.  Because that's all I need--for my camera for survive.

This is my first time coming close to being run over by a two-ton vehicle, but I'm not afraid.  I breathe deeply, preparing myself. I count the seconds, waiting for the pain to implode.  The hairs on my fingertips stand on end, expecting a horrible blast through my body.  But there is no pain.  

My heart sinks.

I stand whole on the edge of the sidewalk, blinking.  The car that was rushing to me three seconds ago is no where to be seen.  A few drops of uneasiness rise in my chest, almost like disappointment.  Disappointment.

I breathe out.  

I look to my right and I feel a timid tug on the cuff of my sweater.  A young girl with summer-colored hair stares at me and offers a packaged box with a pair of thin hands.  Cigarettes.  

She smiles, a sad smile that says something about patched wooden roofs and hand-me-down jeans.  Something about saving money by the penny to save lives by the dozen.  In other words, famished, poor.

She looks like she comes from a long play in the park--grubby nails and tangled hair--not as a witness of a near death scene.

I give her a dollar and hold her hand as we cross the street and she lets me take a photo of her before I continue on.

I never ask for her name.

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Noon and I sit alone.  A half-eaten sandwich rests on the edge of the table.  The taste of stale coffee lingers on my tongue as I my lips.  Before me, a palm-sized notebook makes itself at home.  I grip a fountain pen between my forefinger and thumb.

I circle the "smoke" with my finger, scratching away at its meaning.  The letters stare back at me.

How much madder would I be if I were a nicotine addict?  How much happier that little girl must be if I had bought just one box?  How tempted I would be to open that box and devour its contents.

I run the pen through every word and turn to a new page, leaving behind the thoughts that disgust me.