Easter Bunny retired. I did

Easter Bunny retired.

I did nothing in the way of hiding Easter eggs. I don’t know if Dorothea did anything. Fifteen years seems like long enough.

I couldn’t remember if the YWCA was closed. Of course, it would be closed for Easter, but I couldn’t remember seeing any signs. That is always haunting to me, things appearing-disappearing-reappearing. I wasn’t sure. Of, course, when I turned the corner and saw that the parking lot was empty, it wasn’t a shock to see the sign “Closed on Easter Sunday” on the door, but here’s the other thing: I didn’t remember that I’d seen the sign.

That couple across the room from me at the coffee shop–the man and the woman, playing dominoes–they’re making a hell of a lot of noise. They have this bag–it looks like the size of a plastic shopping bag you’d get at a grocery store–filled with dominoes. They’re constantly handing the bag back and forth to each other, reaching into it, and stirring the dominoes around. That is the loud part. They could be husband and wife, brother and sister, AA. They look like they could pose for “American Gothic.” When they first sat down, the woman explicitly said that some topic of conversation was out of bounds. Later, she recanted. They both, if not looking at the dominoes, are looking off–up, to the side, but not at reach other.

Yesterday morning, I arrived here, Nina’s, after the YWCA, with no time constraints and The New York Times. There I was with my muffin “for here,” twenty-four ounce travel mug of half decaf, half dark roast with room, bottle of Naked Juice Protein, and there it was–the front-page, above the fold article about starving children in Africa. Arrgghh. Today’s is about coronary disease. Arrgghh. The guy in the article had lost forty-five pounds–at six-two, he was down from 278 to 232–certainly I can relate. He’s forty-four. He’d been at gym, lifted, and was on the elliptical trainer when he started to get chest pains. That’s me, man.

Then, in the article, arterial plaque and pimples are described. Ah-hemm. I am Mr. Plaque and Pimple, Mr. Cyst, Mr. Pus. That’s what’s on the outside of my body, anyway. Easy to believe that that’s what’s on the inside, too.