I leave the house every weekday morning between 7:03 and 7:06. I exit my apartment with a can of soda and a book in my hands, and I proceed to my bus stop, just a little over a half mile away. The ideal time for me to leave is 7:03, at that time the the earth is open and awake.
The bus picks me up on Sunset Boulevard, in front of a large house which has been converted into an office building. The building is still rather attractive and has retained a beautiful lawn, no doubt aided by the expensive timed sprinkler system. The sprinkler head in the corner of the yard nearest the pole that I lean against as I wait for my bus does not function properly, instead of spreading the water into a fine airborne mist, it acts as a spring, and creates a puddle on the ground. Watching the puddle spread outward soothes and excites me, I enjoy predicting the course it will run as it forms tiny rivers in search of lower ground. The broken sprinkler head provides not only entertainment, but acts as my commute clock. If I round the corner and I see the puddle has already crossed the sidewalk I know that I am running late. My bus arrives shortly after the water has made it's way from the yard to the street.
Today the world was willing to heed my schedule, but the driver of my particular bus was not. For some ridiculous and inane reason my bus driver decided to be early today. This was not the good early, the good early being the early where I round the corner, walk to my stop and the bus pulls up just as I arrive offering me a place to sit, instead of a poll to lean on. Today, with no regard to my sense of an ordered well maintained universe, I watch my bus drive past my stop from a distance, without me on it.
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