“What’s 7-2-4-2-0-0-6?”

“My kid’s birth date. That’s what they all are, my kids’ birthdays in binary.”

“Do they like them?”

“Each one is in their favorite color, and they helped me pick the typeface. They think it’s cool.”

“That’s sweet.”

The above conversation took place at 7:53am, between strangers, on bicycles.


In front of the elementary school on Cambridge St, I was stopped behind a school bus. A boy in a top hat and a red shirt bounded down the steps. A blond girl in pink followed him. Walking next to one another, she took his hat and put it on.


On Webster Ave this morning, I stopped to check something in my bag. A woman got into her car, which I was blocking. Deep in searching, I didn’t notice her.

“Are you going to move?” She asked me.

I looked up at her. Her shoulders sank and she smiled.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m late and it’s my fault.”

“Sorry,” I said.

She smiled again and I got out of her way.