Lunch, (or, an attempt at lunch) has somehow done a number on me. A walk down the street to the ATM under a gray, turbulent sky and tree limbs that are beginning to rust. Inside the bank I wait for an old woman who is standing at the machine. She is dressed up in a lemon-yellow ruffled blouse topped with a cherry-red coat. On her head is a wig of wavy, black hair. Her perfume is sickly-sweet and reminds me of a funeral. She is having trouble with the machine and is exhibiting much confusion. After some more futile button pressing with her ring-laden fingers she gives up and retreats slowly out the door. I step up and withdraw a 20 and head out. The old woman, aided by a cane, is moving glacially across the parking lot toward the bus stop. Every few steps she halts and looks around as though lost. As I walk back toward the office I am overcome by an awful malaise that slows up my pace. Shoulders droop and I don't feel so hungry anymore. Suddenly feel so very tired. Back at my desk my head pounds and I wonder if M wants to go blue fishing tomorrow. Check the train schedules for a departure heading for the coast. The week is over and I am in need of a sea change that only the salt and the tides can bring.