There is one morning in recent memory where I caught my teenage neighbour out on his stoop with a giant, truly impressive bong (not unlike a really large test tube, or small palm tree).
He choked on it when I said “Hi” and I looked away so he could shove it behind him and pretend he didn’t have it. And so I could pretend I never saw it. So we could both pretend that it wasn’t, in actuality, right there, jammed between his body and the front door, jabbing him uncomfortably in the back like it was indignant.
(Wouldn’t you be?)
Then he smiled and said “Hi” back.
Then we talked about the weather for longer than seemed necessary, or possible. He shifted, fumbled, and the bong fell unceremoniously to its side. The noise it made as it did so was one of pure resignation.
Then he really smiled and I really smiled and we forgot about the weather and wished each other a nice day.
Because it’s not always about how the day starts, is it?
And the morning had really only just begun, hadn’t it?