7:44 am. Boyfriend brings the 2-year old from upstairs
down to wake me up. He's in those footie pajamas. He grabs my shirt and
reaches in to try to pinch my boob. "Nuh-uh, sorry kiddo," I say.
He looks innocent and hopeful. As if I might let him do it the next time.
8:46 am. A blind man stops me on my way to the subway
and asks for help crossing the street to his bus stop. Just as we finish crossing,
the bus is about to leave. I run forward, waving, to stop it. The blind man
follows me, blindly, holding my arm. He clocks his head on a telephone pole.
God will punish me for this. I get him seated on the bus, and apologize profusely,
as the bus driver and all the riders look at me with disgust, waiting for me
to leave.
12:33 pm. I've given the Puerto Rican taxi driver lousy
directions to my client's office. He groans when he realizes halfway through
the ride where we're actually going. He berates me. I apologize. He keeps berating
me. I say, "I've told you I'm sorry, I made a mistake. What else do you
want?" He asks me if I'm from out of town and then keeps lecturing me.
12:52 pm. The woman in front of me in the crowded elevator
has very long hair, which I accidentally disturb while looking for something
in my bag. She whirls around, hair flying, with a look that demands an apology.
As if I had perhaps stepped on her child's foot. "Uh, sorry," I say.
She rolls her eyes and whirls back around.
4:12 pm. I walk into my boss's office and catch her with
her index finger digging around in her left nostril. Our eyes lock for a moment.
Then she removes her finger and raises her eyebrows, her whole face a question
mark. "Oh, I'm sorry, I should have knocked," I say. I think this
only makes it worse.
6:29 pm. I am reading the newspaper over the shoulder
of the man next to me on the subway. Suddenly, he notices, and starts hunching
in the other direction to hide his paper, shouting, "Lady, get your own
damn paper. They're cheap!" I'm mortified. "I'm sorry," I whisper.
I look up and see all the old ladies on the train shaking their heads at me.
It's like a bad dream, or a Borges story.
9:12 pm. We're stepping over some people to get to our
movie seats, when I hear "Ouch, jesus!" behind me. By the look on
my boyfriend's face, I can tell that he's stepped on the woman's foot on purpose,
retribution for the fact that she refused to stand up and let us pass. He doesn't
say anything. I'm embarrassed. The woman is staring at me. "I'm sorry,"
I tell her.
Though I am innocent.
Kio Stark lives in New York City. She is currently
working on her first novel.
