Late.
Minutes before I walked down the stairs to the Q at the Atlantic Avenue stop, a middle-aged man jumped in front of the train. I know this, because I was standing by the elevator. He was on a cart under a white sheet. His head wasn't covered so I knew he wasn't dead, but when his arm fell off his chest and dangled, fingers limp, almost touching the ground, I knew he most likely wasn't going to make it. One of the EMTs looked as if she was just angry that she had to do her job. She was rather flustered because they couldn't all fit into the elevator, the doors wouldn't close.
I was late to work this morning.
I was late to work this morning.