Nothing I could do
We were up and around, but the day had not officially started. The thin dawnclouds still slept low over our street and even lower over the city, and the soggy light from half-open blinds was unflattering on the scratches in our wood floor and the misplaced objects on the furniture. Sounds of footsteps, sinks, doors, and appliances were abrasive in isolation as John and I walked past each other a few times without interaction in pre-work routine. When I finished my patterns and cracked the front door open to leave, I heard Brad throwing up in the bathroom and the awful sound made my eyes shut by themself. With the doorknob still twisted to the right, I softly pushed the door back into place and stood still, looking at the box of records on the floor. I was already late for work but something kept me there. I was thinking about how all emotions are rooted in interaction with others, and that it was just as painful for me to wait knowing there was nothing I could do to relieve his pain as it was for him to wait while his body violently rejected whatever had been taken in. The knob was still turned and I could feel the unsureness of the door in my hand. I felt terrible and at that moment I wanted a lot of things that I had no control over. I wanted to at least do some writing. But I was late, so I had to leave everything as it was and get on with my day.