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It’s almost 6 a.m. Maybe. You’re not sure because it’s dark. So freaking dark. All you know is your alarm went off about an hour ago, and by the time muscle memory got you to where you were going, the free, legal parking was already taken. You park down the road, and fall out of your car. Under the street lamp, it’s clear that normal people should not see you this way, so you quickly drop two quarters, two dimes, a nickel, and some lint into the parking meter. It’s not enough, but you’ll see later that the meter was broken anyway.

You drag yourself up the stairs, and hear the familiar drone of machines. You can also just make out the sound of “the CD,” an almost criminal mix of Pet Shop Boys, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Rihanna. Despite being stepped on, cracked in half, and burned at the stake at least a million times, the CD always manages to make its way into the circa 1985 boombox on the days you forget your iPod. You check. You have your iPod. But you forgot to charge it. Whatever.

At the top of the stairs, the smell of new carpet, old wood, and the uni someone refuses to wash is almost more than you can bear. Still, you move to the side and pretend to stretch as you scan the room. Model C. Old school. Model D. Maybe, but no battery. Not in front of her. Not near him. This is a science after all. There’s the one.  One more big pretend stretch and you head off to the target with your umbrella, ella, ella ….

Question:  Okay. Clearly, you’re at the boathouse and about to erg, but …

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