I was a pharmacist in a border town where the pharmacy sign was in both languages. The night before I moved to the city, I couldn't sleep.
I drove to the highway rest stop at 3 AM. The fluorescent lights buzzed over empty parking spaces.
In the glove compartment, I found a green wristband from a concert I'd gone to when I was seventeen. It was still knotted around my old keychain.
I remembered the summer before pharmacy school. I had stood in a field with thousands of people, feeling infinite.
Now I spent my days counting pills and answering questions about insurance. The wristband was from a different life.
I slipped it onto my wrist. It was tight, but it fit.
I sat there until the sky turned gray, then drove back to pack the last box.