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On Fridays (and occasionally on other days) I like to sneak out of work early. Usually that just means leaving at five. I cram keys and phone and card and license and blackberry into my pants pockets. Picking up my keys gently so that my secretary doesn't here the tell-tale signs of packing up. I don't hit G on the elevator, in case anyone gets on with me and instead lurk off on the second floor. To the front stairs and out the visitor's entrance. In the summer, I'm usually a little giddy and run for a block or two. Overcome with that feeling of sneaking through back yards or stashing a 40 in your bag into the movies.
But the winter is cold and obviously bundling into a coat and hat and gloves before sidling down the hallway would be a give away. I wince at the bus station and shift from foot to foot clenching my fists (my pockets, you'll recall are quite full). Or I'll shiver guiltily into a cab.
If I can't leave early but I'm not being dragged along by a neck rope of deadline stress, I literally can't do anything. Endless detention hall minutes stall in my office. I stare at my coat and hate-dream about leaving it behind for good. Walking out and wearing layered sweaters on Monday and all the Mondays after.
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