I repeated to myself as I wrapped the bottom of my dress through my fist and tip-toed around the puddles.
My method of readying myself allows me to leave twenty-five minutes early no matter the occasion. On my best days, twenty-six. I’m always the first guest at picnics and parties, you know, the one the late-comers rely on to be inevitably prompt.
My eyelashes are catching raindrops, and today I chose to be late. “Late to our own lives… to our own damn lives,” I repeatedly catch myself muttering under my breath as I raise my foot onto the step and loosen my coat, waiting to be handed a pamphlet.
If I only picked up my pace sooner. If I only learned this the easy way. The one time I was “too late” was when you asked me to marry you but I’m certain time was just an excuse.
“I object,” twenty-six minutes too late.