Thirty-two stoplights between my apartment and the tax office. I know every one by its timing.
That hour is the only quiet one I get. No clients. No phone. No brother.
We used to share a room. Now he lives three hundred miles away, and the last time he called was two years ago. I still have his voice on an old voicemail.
I remember my shop teacher saying, 'You can't weld a crack that's already rusted through.' I didn't understand then. I do now.
At home, I have a corkboard in the kitchen. It's covered in expired coupons. I keep meaning to replace them. But I don't. They're like promises I never kept.
Every morning, I hit the same stoplight at 6:47. It always turns red. I sit and wait and don't turn on the radio.
Some silences are the only thing that hold you together.