Closing Doors

"When I look at you, he is touching me. I would reach for him, but who can hold a memory?" -- from The Scarlet Pimpernel

My working group scheduled a 7AM meeting for this morning; the sun hadn't yet risen when I walked into clinic at 6:45. I didn't have time to make or purchase coffee before work, so, by 8:30, I was listless, unmotivated, and staring blankly at my computer screen.

In desperate need of a little caffeine therapy, I took a walk to Gotham, one avenue away. I purchased my caffeine fix and began my powerwalk back to clinic, but my pace slowed to a near-crawl after a mere few steps. As is often the case when I'm trying to get somewhere, the majority of the sidewalk was monopolized by a slow-moving couple. Now, very few things on this planet piss me off more than people who break my stride on the streets of New York City, but I couldn't get angry at these two.

Why? This lady and gent were ancient -- so old that they were shrunken and shriveled and barely reached the five-foot mark, with wisps of pure-white hair peeking out from under their hats. They were chatting animatedly with each other as they walked, whispering, glancing at each other with unbelievable fondness. And, most notably, they were holding hands -- even swinging their clasped fingers in time with their careful steps. It took me five minutes to walk one block because I was stuck behind them, but the waves of pure, unabashed love radiating off of the couple warmed my under-caffeinated heart. In light of the beauty of their union, I decided that, just maybe, my general hatred of public displays of affection was due for a little re-evaluation.

I moved to pass the couple as I approached my building, but they veered off towards the front doors along with me. The little old man held the door open for his lady, leading her through the entrance by the small of her back.

He then turned his head, looked me square in the eye, and let the door slam in my face.

PDAs should be outlawed. Outlawed.