Saturday, January 27, 2007
Handshakes, meeting, report. I wish the new president luck, then escape for drinks with J. We talk about climate change, our first boyfriends, the painting she’s working on—anything but work. Slowly, the union disappears.
She asks me if I’ll miss it. I say yes, and no.
Walking home, I think about other, quieter passions and the prospect of time. As I turn the key, I realize that tomorrow is finally my own.