It turns out that all throughout this morning’s commute, I wore a Trader Joe’s PLU sticker on my back without knowing it.
It most likely latched itself on as I walked through the store’s aisles last night in search of weekly goods. I bought bananas, a salad, and oatmilk, but no sweet potatoes.
Yet the sticker made its way over.
She rode with me on the train, packing in tightly to let passengers in. She saw, maybe even for the first time, the streets of Downtown Boston during rush hour.
We walked together up Bromfield Street, stopping to glance at fountain pens in the pen shop’s window. We wondered how much each of them cost, knowing full well neither of us could afford them.
We took the long way to work, crossing paths with an old friend and choosing to stay just one minute longer out in the sun. We then made it inside.
It wasn’t until I took off my sweater in order to hang it that I finally noticed she was there. No one had stopped me to point her out. Yet, having lived through this morning together, I’m glad no one did.