word was "then," uttered to a woman in green whose name he did not know.

wristwatch was set three minutes ahead, deliberately, so he was always punctual.

haircut was seventeen dollars and looked it.

weekend was semiannual inventory check, then visitation rights.

color was red.

book was The DaVinci Code, five years ago, not particularly enjoyed but recommended constantly, even before it was finished.

song was "Saturday Night" by a band he pretended to like, downloaded illegally, burned to a compact disc which skipped in his car stereo at full volume.

movie was the first half of Riding in Cars with Boys starring Drew Barrymore, which his girlfriend made him watch until he fell asleep.

television was Seinfeld, the episode when George refuses to give up a parking spot.

shoelace was untied.

accident was maybe not an accident.

hands were chapped and easily shaken.

crying was the birth, not the death, of his first daughter.

shave was blunt, clumsy.

temperature was ninety eight point seven degrees Fahrenheit.

weather was windy and brisk, cloudy, reminiscent of middle-age, not unpleasant.

month was March.

breath was like his first.

commercial was skinny women dancing to Tampax.

alarm clock was 7:45 am.

sleep was fitful.

magazine was People which he pretended to read in order to avoid eye contact in the waiting room.

dentist appointment was two cavities and an almost pleasant nausea.

drink was ginger ale, from a can, tepid.

microwave was 3 minutes, 27 seconds, popcorn.

meal was a roast beef sandwich, no mayo, extra cheese, eaten alone, served by a waitress slightly distracted because her period was late.

donut was original glazed and fucking delicious.

thought was slightly insane.

pill was ibuprofen, one hundred milligrams, a small, immaculate capsule, a self-contained universe in the palm of his sweating hand.

home wasn’t.

exercise was the climb, two hundred thirty seven stairs, because he was watching his weight.

kiss was wet and too open, reciprocated out of politeness and routine.

vomit was pink and beer-brown, senior year of college.

sex was partially clothed, fleshy, and mutually explosive.

cigarette was like all the others.

drive was home to work in the beige Honda bought used but proudly.

pet was Scout, ungroomed, black, inbred, too old to be cute, too young to be pitiful, loved.

vacation was Italy with the wife and kids of a previous Leonard, sunburned.

name was easy to spell, difficult to pronounce.

face was collapsed.

smile was genuine, rare.

piss was three hundred twenty six milliliters this morning in the leftmost urinal of the third floor bathroom while contemplating the purchase of a new umbrella.