One day he will kill the greatest prize, bring it home and hang it by the hindlegs for all the town to see. He strokes each bow, feels sleek & fine wood beneath the tips of his calloused fingers, considers each arrow in his roster, thin lovers to twine with the string. The only love a bow knows is the kind you must let go of, to let prosper alone. Sailing through the air is a solitary art.

Day by day he is left with less and less bows as the famed hunters come in search of their new companion. Allowing killer instinct to guide the way to either ebony or wooden weaponry, whichever would best suit their prey. He studied every remaining friend and imagined each one in his hands, the fame they could find each other.

Dreamily, he allowed each one away to its new habitat, its destiny. He placed each customer in the wilds, stalking game, and pictured his own face atop each set of armour, soon he would find his own glory. With whichever bow the heroes left behind, he would Fire the surest of arrows, the sound of the tails whipping in the wind would be the inspiration for the songs to mark his grace.

And with a final bow, the thought was gone

So I leave. I bail. I say nothing to no one, keep my bag strap on my shoulder, reverse my way out of the office. I ditch the cold ham salad lunch I’d brought myself, watch it sink to the bottom of the bin into oblivion. Rat food. I walk.

I feel weekday daytime on my skin for the first time in god knows when. After nine a silent bell rings and the streets seem to empty. There is quiet. I even hear the rustling of branches as breezes drift in. My face feels cool and fresh with the air. I actually close my eyes and just stand there. I feel worshipped.

There’s this cafe that is packed out on Saturdays. It was a favourite of mine in my uni days. There are a few people in it now, reading newspapers, scribbling on notepads, looking dejectedly into middling distance. More importantly, there are free tables. I take one. I bring a latte and a croissant. It’s flaky and warm and the jam comes in a small, individual glass jar. I take a bite when I feel like it and chew slowly, feeling the crispy outsides and doughy insides individually on my tongue.

When a friend calls around eleven, I answer. She asks if I have time for a chat and I say yes. Absolutely yes. So we chat. Gossip. Laugh. Commiserate. Catch up.

When I pass a café that I’ve always wanted to try, just before lunchtime, I head in and claim a table. Around 12:15 other tables fill up quickly, a line for takeout forms, and people turn away, disappointed. When I’m finished with my food, I order a glass of wine.

When a student calls out to me so he can tell me about homelessness, I tell him I have time. Give him a tenner, pledge £3 a month. He thanks me graciously. When I’m passing him again later in the day, he smiles at me warmly, even as he shivers beneath his coat.

By 4:30 I feel at ease. The world was mine today. I was just a woman with nothing but time in her hands and a beautiful city to give all of it to. Although I walked the whole day, I feel like I’ve spent it all meditating. Perhaps walking through life, observing it, hearing half snippets of conversations and seeing people interact with one another, maybe that is a form of mediation.

So, clear minded, I allow curiosity to settle in. Head back to the office.

The doppelgänger stares at me from my desk chair, slack jawed and incredulous. For a moment I think that it is I who is the twin, and she is seeing me for the first time.

Her expression quickly turns to one of anger. She doesn’t stay to answer questions. Doesn’t ask any either.

“Your three o’clock got moved up and you need to buy a card for Shelley because she’s going on maternity and Martin needs the quarterly report by Friday and —“

Speak of the devil, Martin appears, claps her back: “before you go, I’d really like you to review that presentation I sent you earlier today.”

“Mmmmm,” she groans like a distressed cat. “Yes sir, I’ll get on that before I leave, then!” And marches back to her desk. She pushes open the laptop that she closed mere moments ago. “Where did you go? Why did you leave!?”

I shrug. “You seemed to have things under control.”

She shoots me a hideous glare. The days R&R acts as a protective shield from the visual arrack.

“Will you be back tomorrow?” I ask.

She throws my laptop at me.

I pack my bags and linger in hallways in different towns. I smile at strangers, friends of friends, like it makes sense. I have a routine, a favourite breakfast, a goal to meet everyday. I watch the sun sleepless as it rises and fall with all the raindrops that roll down my window. I exist. Linger in the hallways. This is what I want.

I never meet you. I never have my reason to stay and chase this desire to linger in hallways in different towns. I fall out of touch and become a ghost. So many people are united in the way they used to know me. I take a long bus ride back home every other month, and you never push me to learn to drive. I live out of bags. This is what I thought I wanted.

Instead my routine has been thrown out of high windows to be revived and thrown out again. I change my mind a million times, never eating the same breakfast twice, and I learn that a goal unmet today doesn’t have to be a parallel stranger. You pulled me from the hallway to dance in the kitchen. We fall asleep, a huddled mess, on our couch, at nine at night while the movie is still playing. This is what I want.