My commute

I sashay down to the corner with heels clip-clopping, hitting the sidewalk past buildings tall enough to make the tourists and freshmen (the only people who bother to stop and look at things) crane their neck. There, the bus stop, a clear, plexiglass construction provides shelter from wind, rain, and cars for a quick lunch break. When the red Circulator roars up, I rummage through my bag to discover an errant dollar, smooth it out to feed it to the hungry fare machine, which slurps it up impatiently, and hurry to the back of the bus and sit on a colorful, itchy window seat and stare at the scenery - stacked office buildings with trendy, colorful restaurants and story-after-story of grey windows, white walls, and brown desks. An occasional glimpse of green plant lends hope for the colorful, but that may be a trick of the heart. On the other side of the street, parks occasionally lend life and dimension to the wall of offices, with green grass and statues of dead heroic figures. Invariably, they will be empty, except for the occasional homeless person, with layers of clothes and a garbage bag full of precious possessions. As the ride up K St. goes on, the buildings get less lavish and more imperial. More trash litters the sidewalk. Gourmet food trucks - painted bright colors and decorated with clever names park on the street - waiting for hungry workers to get a sudden urge for cheesecake, mac and cheese, Italian pizza, BBQ, and organic ice cream.
My stop is next - I adjust my grip on my briefcase and stand up - hurriedly flailing for balance as the bus decelerates. I avoid the hawkers looking for unsuspecting tourists, bounce across the street, then pick my way carefully over the grates, cobbles, and homeless people covered in tarps against the marble walls of federal buildings. I cross the street, avoiding zooming taxi-cabmen, and join the throngs of cubicle-dwellers, wait for someone to open the door to my building, and head to the elevator (10th floor, if you would, please) and get ready to work.