A Different Hour

Not my typical time to post — but that's not the different hour I mean. It was my walk yesterday to Metro, more than three hours later than usual.

The light slanted in from the west on a day that was as exquisite as promised. The fact that I'd spent almost every minute of it inside made these outdoor minutes all the more precious.

The buildings were gleaming, the pavement stones shining and people lingered at sidewalk cafes and corner bistros. At Rosa Mexicana a man wiped his mouth with a large cloth napkin. He was eating guacamole from a stone bowl. At the corner of Seventh and F a beggar shook coins in a dirty paper cup. No one seemed inclined to add to them. Ahead of me, a couple strolled in the waning light, holding hands. He held a gym bag and leaned his head toward her when she talked, which she did, animatedly, all the way down the block.

I had Les Mis in my ears and the capital city in my sights. Day was turning to evening. It was a different hour. It was a good walk.