I'm late, I'm late!

The snow is crisp out on the vacant lot across from my building. Someone has built a snowman on the tennis courts below. All is quiet on a Sunday morning. And I'm late, again.

I jump out of bed and throw on the first sweater I find in the pile; and there's a pile. My clothes, freshly washed, lie in their hamper and across the bed, waiting to be put away. They've been there for days. Rushing into the kitchen, I grab my purse and find my keys on the counter. Stop. Go back to the bedroom and grab my meds. Can't forget those precious tidbits. Out the door I fly; 11 floors down and into the belly of the building.

Dark. I open the doors, grab the newspapers from the loading dock next door, and turn on the lights. Please don't let there be cockroaches, I think. I check the clock: 9:15. I hope he's not watching the video tapes to see when this place opens. I've been late a few days now. No one would know but me, since I'm the only one here, but I feel guilty all the same.

It's not like me to be late. I'm never late for things. I'm always too early - getting there before the hostess is ready. And now, I'm just so tired. My dreams are vivid, disturbing. I want to cry out but I wake up instead. And then it's late.

I ran out without breakfast, and now everything here looks good. I find a granola bar in my purse and proceed to gnaw it down. Not the same as a real breakfast. And I'm here till 2. What can I eat? Why does my jaw insist on chewing constantly? I must find something. Pretzels: too salty for a lithium body? Oatmeal squares: I could eat 5. My banana is too raw.

So I sit here, hungry, lonely, tired. Waiting for release. My leg twitches to a beat of it's own. Tap, tap, tapping away. I'm antsy.