Front-loaded

Once a week, I leave for work at forty-five after. It’s a very strange time to leave for something. It means at fifteen after, I still have a half hour before I have to leave. I sit around and look at the clock, confused about everything; I know I’ve taken commuter trains at forty-five after (though not regularly) in my youth and I don’t remember them throwing the proverbial spanner in the noggin’s functions. But, for whatever reason, that forty minutes–from five after when I realize I still have forty minutes–to forty-five after is always strange. The urgency is front-loaded.

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