The street that charges a toll

You know the exact spot. The lit sign. The doorway. The bench where you always stopped. The walk is easy right up until those twenty steps, and then it asks. Some days you breeze past. Some days you're tired. Those twenty steps cost more than the whole rest of the walk.

Your feet know that route like the worn dirt line across a park lawn, the shortcut everybody takes without thinking. It's your own street, and the cigarette turned it into a toll road. Every time you pass and hold, you pay. Attention, resolve, some of the reserve you'll want later tonight. Five extra minutes is cheap. That doorway isn't.

Take the turn before you reach it. Go one street over, right now. Yes, it's longer. Yes, it feels a little silly. A boxer who slips a punch hasn't lost the round. He just didn't get hit. Skipping a fight you don't need takes no strength at all. Distance now buys you indifference later.

Turn, and hand God the walk. Lead me home the long way. Then look around. Different windows, different faces, nothing on this block that knows your habits. Notice how little is asking you for anything. Your feet just started wearing a new line into the grass.