Nine Steps Ahead

Since meeting Phyllis, I find myself applying mascara before heading out for paper towels.

Got reading material?

Is your phone charged?

Did you eat dinner?

(Never know when 15 minutes might turn into eight hours at an ER.)

Suddenly, my mundane errands seem charged with purpose:

That guy dressed like Great Gatsby whose bike is unsteady?

The nanny who’s only paying attention to one of her charges?

That homeless man with two shopping carts crossing on a red?

Once I confirm their safety, I move on.

Scanning the faces and body language of strangers, I realize that heads shaved like Alberto’s no longer turn my head:

I know we’ll never run into each other again.

I accept this.

I live this.

But, Portugal?

Who still lives and breathes in my Chelsea neighborhood?

That could happen.

I’ve seen The Adjustment Bureau.

The men in magic hats, the lifelines morphing on graph paper amid the seeming happenstance that is New York City.

Then I remember the rest of Adjustment Bureau:

The kismet, trust and determination of the two main characters.

And realize it will never happen.

No matter how many rolls of paper towels I go out for, the men in hats will always be nine steps ahead of me and my mascara.