Heart Transplant
In the murky Tuesday morning, after breakfast and a shower, I sit down at my desk, and look out the window to the rush hour of Albany traffic. The college kids walk buy in their hoodies and fleeces. October is showing its ugly side, with a torn fog draped over water-logged leaves, smearing the street and the sidewalk. Turning back to my computer, I open my emails as I sip my coffee.
I blink, and in the darkness of eyelids, I see the nighttime lights of Paris along the Champs Elysee.
Open my eyes and I’m still at my desk, waiting for my first meeting to start. The daily status update for Project Slingshot, not to be confused with Project Catapult.
I blink again, and I’m staring into the smile of a girl eating a crepe — a crepe that I just bought for her. Standing in the rain, at the opposite end of the Champs de Mars from the Eiffel Tower, she gushes about how delicious it is. With a fork in one hand, and a plate in the other, she can’t hold her umbrella, so I hold mine over her, keeping the crepe from getting wet, while the summer rain soaks my sport coat. She’s leaving Paris today, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.
A notification goes off — the meeting is starting. I dial in. I give my update, like a drone recanting its pre-programmed code. I regurgitate the tasks listed out on my calendar, let the project manager know about a potential blocker, and then wait quietly for the rest to do the same. It’s clear that my heart’s not in it.
My heart is in Paris.
