time

Sometimes during the course of daily life I get into the habit of counting the minutes and seconds I've either saved or wasted on certain mundane tasks.  If I forget to jiggle the toilet handle and have to return to the bathroom when I realize the water's been running for a few minutes, a mental block of "wasted time" is calculated, like a soft imaginary marshmallow, and safely stored.  If the door to my apartment complex isn't latched and I don't have to wrestle the correct key into the lock, a "saved time" marshmallow ploops into existence in my mind.  At these points thin branches of reality split off and ghosts of myself forge down the new veins, continuing my life as though I hadn't wasted or saved that small amount of time.  Sometimes she's five feet behind me walking at the same clip, sometimes she's smoking a cigarette on the porch when I'm jiggling the toilet handle and sighing, sighing.