T minus 30.
A song while the coffee perks.
Hair is brushed.
Conference Clothes are on.
If we were in person, we would be meeting in the hotel lobby to walk
over to the conference venue, or share an Uber. We would stow the stray
tags from our shirts, or straighten each other's ties and double check
the collars of our sports jackets. One of us would offer Band-Aids for
the blister we picked up walking around yesterday, and we would smile at the hotel staff who don't seem to understand the collection of tweed and square-frames.
You're pointing and laughing in disbelief as I fill my mug halfway with milk before I pour in any
coffee. Nearby we hear someone say, "I hate my hair," and we reply,
unsolicited and true, "stop, you're just gorgeous."
We walk slowly in a quiet hush towards Room A, as though entering church. Someone says, "Remember: the enemy's gate is down." We pass through the doorway, stifling giggles.
