I stood on the scale, glaring at the numbers.

Later when I took Oliver out, the number from the scale in my head, instead of turning right towards the elevator, I go left. Out the fire door into the stairwell. Oliver looked back at me, went down a few steps, stopped, looked back. I caught up to him. We started down again. That was easy. Coming back inside, I walk towards the stairs. Ten floors down hadn’t been so bad. Let’s try ten up. 2^nd floor, I gulped air. 3^rd floor, my chest was pounding. 4^th floor, my calves burned. 5^th floor, I opened the fire door. When I got inside, I hid the scale.  

It was 6:00 pm and I was late.

Oliver pulled at the leash as we ran down the hallway. At the elevator, he did his dance. We raced to the park. He made it, squatting in the rock bed. But that’s when I realized I was the one doing the dance.

Smoke from bacon crept to the ceiling.

The smoke alarm blared. I scrambled—fan on, window open, step ladder out—reaching to turn it off. From somewhere below, a dog barked. Oliver barked back. Later, out in the hallway, I avoided eye contact with the guy from 1001.

Get out of the way!

Her arm blocked the elevator panel. I reached behind her for the button. Her eyes locked on her phone. Every single time. The dog and I got off at the dog park. The dog’s tail wagged. Next time, I’ll ask her to push the button for me.

I’d left my glasses behind.

My hair was hanging in my eyes. I got on the down elevator. Pushed 10. Ping. The door opened. Again. Again. I was already on 10. I needed floor 2.

I moved across the country a year ago.

Having not lived in an apartment since my 20’s, I was worried about Oliver, my nine-year-old mini golden doodle disturbing my neighbors. I picked out a 10^th floor apartment, all the way at the end of the hallway. I had lots of time to think.