Central Park South “Oh shit!”

It’s been one helluva Friday. The clock on my computer reads 6:16 pm.

“I’m supposed to meet my wife at Exhale in fourteen minutes!”

I pack my bag, grab my hat, and dash for the elevators. I stride down the escalator and dial up Counting Crows “Daylight Fading” as I rush through the revolving doors.

Times Square is crowded with flashing lights and bumper-to-bumper cabs. I step off of the sidewalk into the street and accelerate.

Walking up Seventh Avenue, I pass a mother and daughter. The mother carries a big, red American Girl bag. Her daughter clutches a doll with blonde ringlettes in one hand, a hot dog — her first New York hot dog, I imagine — in the other. I smile, realize that I’m listening to Counting Crows “American Girls,” and smile some more.

My pocket vibrates.

“C U in Relaxation Room!” Abbi texts.

I tap my response with my thumb, stealing glanses at the street in front of me.

“Half-way there!”

I turn east on Central Park South, and look up over the park. The skyline is crowded with the light of a thousand windows shining like stars. The air is crisp and cool. I am staring down the barrel of a three-day weekend.

A few feet from my 6:45 massage, I think, “Man, you got it good.”

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