132. Eight Years LaterRoman

Eight years later, since my heart left, my life has become a series of controlled motions.

I arrive at the office at 6:10 a.m. every morning; never later, rarely earlier. The city is quieter then, Manhattan still stretching its spine awake. From the car window, glass towers catch the first light like disciplined soldiers. Order comforts me. Predictability does.

The lobby recognizes me before the security desk does. The doors part. The guards nod. The elevator is ...