Loopy

His head, clearly not fully in control of his right foot, which catches the corner of the ill-stacked stack of shingles on the garage floor beside his pickup, delivers a significant blow to the truck’s bumper. The rest of his body, suddenly sprawled and dazed, takes at least a full minute to register the impact, then takes a couple more to right itself and rise, collect its scattered belongings—lunchbag, travel mug, journal—before letting him go back into the house to unrattle, wash his scraped knuckles, check his pants for torn or soiled knees, and decide if the event merits a return to and continuation of routine or a call to work announcing a later arrival.

No serious damage noted, he gathers himself, imagines that time has merely looped, briefly, and lets himself out into the garage again as he had done only moments before.

Halfway to work, he decides it must be Monday.

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