Rote

I find myself here every twenty-four hours, give or take a few minutes. Or if I have an early appointment or something, I’ll be a little late, maybe an hour or so. And the weekends are different, too. I’m not here on the weekends. I stay away on the weekends. But I always come back. I’m not sure why.

My kids probably have something to do with it. My mortgage and my wife. I have a responsibility to them, don’t I? I can’t just stop my routine, change the one constant in my life, can I?

I have responsibilities. Timelines. To do lists. I can’t drop them just because I’m idling. And yet, I return to this place, Monday through Friday and the occasional Saturday. Sometimes a Sunday every now and then. I don’t reach for the keys and turn the engine off. Not immediately. My eyes close. My breath stops. My head swims in the morning light. Sounds fade away, blur the line between acoustic wavelengths and heartbeats. The feeling comes next. It’s powerful and anxious; it forces my jaws to clamp and my hands to knot and my muscles to tense. Heat billows uncomfortably from my insides, undulates up and through me, encasing my nervous system, pleading for attention. Shaking. Twisting. Urging. Screaming. It wants out. Needs out.

I wait it out. Heart rate returns. Hands unknot. Muscles relax. Lungs reduce. Everything’s fine. Back to normal. Plain. Vanilla. No surprises. Just routine. I open the glove compartment, reach for the tiny package of Kleenex. Blow my nose.

Turn off the car.

Pull the door handle.

Get out.

Turn around.

Lock the door.

Close the door.

And wait for 23 more hours.