Early morning, we rise in a fog and stow away the beds, the chairs, the bags of clothes. I pack a small bag and trudge through the streets toward the new, gleaming office, already tired, already weary of the days ahead. Another favor asked, another kind hand extended even when I know she should have said no. Just a few more days, I think, and scold myself for my spoiled issues. That my back aches from carrying a heavy laptop, that I leave clothes in my sister’s car so that I will have something clean to wear come tomorrow’s festivals, that I am throwing a great party on Saturday and haven’t the time or place for cake-making.
This is a beautiful city, summer remains in the wind, there is music, and wine, and life to be had, and beautiful friends with whom to share them. What have I to mourn? What pity is there to possibly take on me?
I slap my ridiculous ego for its childishness, go back to work. One day this will all be a romantic memory of my youth, and I won’t understand how it could have been so sad.
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