Spring, my ass.

And that reminds me that the other day at work Ahsan the quiet Muslim boy came over to my desk, where, for some reason or other, two chairs had collected, and said: “Why do you need two chairs?” “Because my ass is so huge,” I said. He must think I am an infidel.

This reminds me, also, that I was on the phone with Mowmy a couple of days ago and she said: “How’s work? Are you still bullying that nice Muslim boy?”

Anyway.

Spring, my ass. Julia the Art Department girl with the black Vespa and the pet rats said to me two days ago: “Happy Equinox!” and then we looked outside to where the sky was a dirty white, and where no tulips and lilies of the valley were blooming, where the grey wind was whipping through the skeleton trees, and then our backs hunched and we went back to work.

Work is where I have been, a lot, and it occurs to me that once upon a time I had the afternoons wide open to me like the vast golden prairies of the American West.

This past Sunday, though—and one good thing about work, besides the big laughs we have and the tin of chocolate Bourbon biscuits on the kitchenette counter, one good thing about work is that come Friday afternoon and the heralding of the weekend, there is a bliss that fills body and soul—

this past Sunday, when it did actually feel like spring, my feet took me to Saint James’s Park, where bright daffodils played soldier and little dogs ran through the grass. I stretched out on a wooden bench and read while the sun beamed down, warm and sweet. I felt good and quiet, and, for the first time in a long time, it felt like I didn’t have to be anywhere anytime soon.

I’m excited about spring because it seems like there’d be blue skies and because there is a boy I want to kiss in the spring.