Limen, threshold of response.
1. Flat tire, took off the bike wheel, sooty hands. How tiny was that villain, the piece of metal that punctured my ride.
2. Earl Grey tea has a calming perfume: bergamot, a kind of citrus. I detect its lemon-lavender fragrance in the steam from the cup twelve feet away.
3. Six handsome men in their forties on the train car I’m in. Nice suits, sharp haircuts, shiny shoes. Two are seated, eyes closed. Three are standing, gazing at devices they hold cupped in their hands. One is reading a Venetian mystery by Donna Leon. I attempt to peek at each of them without appearing to stare.
4. The escalator delivers people in two lines from the train platform to the sidewalk at 1.05 miles per hour. At one point we are neither below ground nor above it, we are in the perfect middle; or are we?
5. The beggar sitting on the ground at the top of the stairs seems young and robust except for his eyes, which are bloodshot and look in two different directions at once.
6. Across the street, a tender green spray of Japanese maple shows off its spring transformation at the base of a mirrored skyscraper. It wasn’t like that yesterday.
7. Walking to lunch, twenty-three people passed me going the other way. Eleven of them wore sunglasses. One block was filled with a rich, deep, skunky scent of cannabis. A friend told me that the pot clubs grow marijuana in cellars all over downtown. The next block, fried chicken.
8. At the end of the day, the small song of zippers throughout the office as we pack for home.
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