on cutting my losses

As it turns out, I wasn't all alone. Only mostly alone. Peter, in his infinite generosity, arranged for movers to turn up in hazard suits and help me throw the contents of our lives into cardboard boxes, one by one. I have no idea what went where—or how, or when—or in what condition, but it is done. Today at high noon, the boxes were loaded, the apartment cleared, and I walked away from the truck with nothing but my purse on my back. Just as some schmuck in a Corolla was pulling up with a spray can and a surgical mask to "treat the building."

You can't script this stuff, folks. It just happens. I walked away from a loaded moving truck, alone, and—just then, in that particular instant—the threat of rain became a reality of rain and an Amtrak rattled over the Hell Gate bridge. My cell battery died before I turned the corner.

I have gone off the grid.

In other news, I miss Peter and France so much it hurts. Now that my tenure at She Beast Enterprises, Inc. draws to an end, I'll never forgive myself for not telling her where she could stick it for denying my vacation time.

So excuse me today, world, for this little blip of melodrama. After all, what is there to do on an empty N train away from life as we know it but bawl all the way to Astoria Boulevard?

Time to go get "this too shall pass" tattooed on my forehead.