Breaking my foot was a devastating injury emotionally, taking me away two things I love most: walking and driving. Forced to take taxis, I discovered the silver lining: A wealth of stories my drivers were eager to tell me.
“There’s a church supper tonight,” she said, even though she knows I’m not comfortable with churches or strangers. “The second sitting starts about now.” I didn’t make any cute jokes about the second sitting.
The text, sent from the office near the end of my shift, was shorthand for “Let’s run away for a few hours. This reality sucks donkey balls.” Or something along those lines. She understood.
I went for a stroll through time last weekend, but I didn’t gather stories of long-dead grifters or tragic railway men. The history I went tramping through was my own.