The sound of an engine, speeding for the ferry pier. The smell of ponzu sauce, testing the contents of a bottle just bought. The weight of the air, cracking the taxi window just a hair. All excellent ingredients for a late-summer tonic to cure anyone who has suffered through a weekend of too much drinking. And pretty much everyone I know was hungover yesterday. And pretty much everyone I know hasn’t a clue what ponzu sauce is.
This morning I get up before my alarm. I had a dream that someone sent me a message spelled backwards. I know it was someone’s name but couldn’t work it out in time before waking up. That sense of urgency from my dream follows me so that I dress quickly for no reason and head for the door with a sense of purpose not actually grounded in reality. All too familiar.
I walk to work knowing that, with each step, a vague plan for today will fall into place. I think about the friend I am due to see tonight, the fried rice with bacon I will cook for them, and the bashful smile they always make when our eyes meet as they step into my tiny kitchen. The scene plays out like a waltz and I step in time with it.