After a series of little things, or perhaps not-so-little things making themselves felt as little things, I came home last night, yelled at Mark and threw myself onto the bed, kicking the mattress and sobbing into my pillow.
This morning there was a busker in the metro. An old west-indian guy who’s been a regular as long as I’ve been working downtown. Strumming his acoustic guitar and singing his familiar, comforting, hopeful reggae.
I gave him a dollar. He gave me a smile.
Little things.