That day I was sleepy, all throughout work, into my lunch break. I took my usual vigil outside, by the pond, while reading the current issue of The New Yorker. There were metal benches arranged around the place where the pond erupted back on itself in mild geysers, and the wind sometimes carried the delicious spray back onto the benches, and anyone sitting on them. The red brick was wet there, cumulative testimony to the accidental hydration wrought by the breeze. I was sleepy again because of the previous night’s repeat of my occasional insomnia, and so I was drinking a coke. I plunked the near-empty can on the small table next to the bench, which a particularly upstart gust sought at once to upset and tip over. And nearly a hair’s breadth from reflexively leaning forward to still the tottering can, that day the thought, like a silent stranger, stole into my head: “I want to still this tottering thing because I am still afraid of death.”
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