It begins with the pull of my belt loop. Caught on the handle of the front door on my way out to work. And the self-sacrifice of coffee that cools on my pant leg, but not before it scolded my skin through the fabric, just an inch above my knee. 

It’s the foggy red glow of brake lights and the fluorescent orange of cones ignited by car beams, orchestrated by roadworks I knew were here. I reminded myself of them, as I twisted my key in the ignition. I better go a different way, I thought. And then the coffee splashed, and autopilot took over whilst I spat words through gritted teeth. The same words I mutter between breaths and unintelligible versions of her name. 

When I finally sit at my desk, the chair either feels an inch too low or a metre too high. The adjustments have never changed, but today it just feels wrong. It’s Dwight. Just Dwight being.. well, Dwight. Even on his nicest days it’s impossible to keep calm, for the patience to wash over me instead of the sickly smell of beets and coffee that are sent off his tongue to drown me into rage.

Then it’s a meeting in the conference room, sandwiched between the clacking and scrapes of knitting needles and heavy breathing playing a soundtrack for solving a crossword puzzle.

It’s a yawn, a reminder of a sleepless night. It’s coming away from being depended on to fix their every need and watch their every move, to doing exactly the same to my boss. I’m fighting fires as my day job and selling paper during my lunch breaks.

And lunch. Fuck, I forgot my lunch. The ham and cheese sandwich held me captive until it was done, it’s the reason I was late. And I forgot it. It’s the empty wallet as I stand before a vending machine, and it’s the questioning rumble of my stomach that would continue to mock me throughout the day. Making its grand appearance in my sales calls, only growing louder with its frustrations. 

And it’s the order I fucked up, that I chased around all afternoon. As if the reams of paper themselves set free from their packaging and thrown into gale force winds, and I’m the unlucky one who has to chase every individual page. What beauty once shimmered in rainfall, now dissolves at a liquid touch.

Then it’s staying late to catch the metaphorical pages, to amend this situation. It’s a silent office, apart from the low hum of computers and the clicking of automatic lights. Then it’s my cold car. It’s a silent ride. It’s following diverted traffic to find more traffic due to a crash five minutes from home. And it’s the worry of home and what that means. I have an abundance of love, I have the promise of giving everything I can, always, evident in a ring. But, it’s the fear of money and what if I cannot provide for my family when our needs surpass love and devotion.

It's the keys slipping out my hand as I attempt to unlock the door. As if my hands dissolved at the acidic touch of cold metal. And it’s the squeaking hinge that announces my entrance. And it’s the clown painting I can’t rip from the wall. On good days it makes me laugh, on days like today it reminds me of my failure and mocks my defeat. It’s a bad day.

But then there’s her. She’s the owner of my heart. She’s the mother of my child. She’s a blossom tree that sits on the edge of spring, a beautiful reminder of what getting through the dark times will have for me on the other side. She is the sunshine. She is the reason everything will be okay.

Her love means everything. It’s knowing that problems will not be solved by her lips at my forehead, but when I’m held in my most vulnerable state, nothing else matters.

She is everything good in the world, so of course I feel so bad when I navigate my day without her. The bad is a reminder for how good she is to me. 

She is the reason it’s not a bad day at all.