The 15

It’s just after 8 am and the morning light illuminates the buildings downtown, searching for a place to rest before the universe decides it’s time to move on. The streets below are humming with activity and my new commute is verging on routine.

I walk past the valet crew at the Westin and we engage in a game of pleasantries. I do the same to the man who faithfully sells Street Roots newspapers on the corner of 6th and Washington. I’m growing to depend on these daily interactions and I know I’ll be surprised to feel their absence when one of us inevitably moves on to something new. 

I worry that one day these exciting happenings will become mundane. Eventually I'll stop studying the faces I pass with intense curiosity that only comes from the uncertainty of whether or not I belong. I'll realize that I’m no longer playing a part I have yet to prove. 

Soon enough I’ll wait for the 15, ticket at the ready, looking for all the world like someone who’s already there.