There are too many sevens in today’s date. It strikes me as blatantly symbolic, although I can’t quite say of what. Luck. Something about sevens saying something about luck. I look more closely at the numbers where they are static where I have typed them, hoping to grasp their importance before another X crosses out another day in the calendar I am losing track of in my mind. I play with three to the third power as a way to rewrite time, but my math seems to equal nothing. I have nothing. I grope at the past to put significance to today and find an anniversary with an old flame that would be three months future (if he too wasn’t crossed out), and a former friend’s birthday today but two months prior (and two years from importance, to me). 

Today falls on a lucky date, since it is filled with sevens, and I am sitting at a desk at a job waiting for some sign. Today my roommate or someone or other returns from a business trip, at the end of which his job will become his former job; at the end of which my apartment – where I have crossed off the last few dates alone – will again become our shared home. We call it ‘home’ to each other, although I may be alone in recognizing this distinction as an active choice. I call it ‘Home’ specifically, because we have a couch on which we each sit on our own side, and from which we watch tv in each other’s company. Sometimes there are cats living their side story lives among our collective Things, each with their own secondhand stories to be retold in our own voices in our shared future times, possibly. 

Today, after an eight hour day at work I want to (for consistency) shrink to seven, I will leave my job to return to that once again shared space. Today, my roommate, or whoever he may be now, will return Home after having crossed his current job forever off of his list of future To-Dos. Today is a lucky day, and the date is filled with sevens, and I will find significance in what is not crossed out;

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