Monday. A warm day, a pleasant day, a day to arrive at work and say goodbye to the wave of people who's last day was today. Suddenly they're gone and tomorrow we'll arrive and sit down and work and wait on the next round, which is my round, which is another sixty-one days in the distance. Unless they extend me for another month or two, which they could do, and that would not be wonderful. But then again this is the end game and, whatever happens, I'll be leaving sooner than later. I'm ready. I am, you know. Really.
Are you? No stress whatsoever?
I can't say no stress. I'm sure there's stress. A big change in my existence. Where to go from here? Will I dissolve into my apartment like some wretched old recluse peeping out at the world through his computer? Nah. I'll get out with the camera, funky assed head or not. I'll get out every morning for breakfast. That and the occasional trip to South America to take in the waters, you understand. Some things remain a given.
You've never been farther south than Mexico and I don't remember there was much in the way of water where you landed.
Tequila, as I recall. I recall drinking Tequila one night with a group of locals while watching the first man walk on the moon on a television set a store owner had placed in his store window. Not a lot of water on the moon either, I believe. Even less Tequila.