I fumble out of the warmth of the white cotton. I tiptoe across the room and into the hallway—scared my footsteps would make the wood under whine. I rush myself into the buzz of the morning subway: a man consumed by the pixels of a small screen, a woman watching the colors blur across the window, and myself.
But that morning was different. The twinkle in Erin’s eyes illuminated; the humming of John upped its tempo; and above all, the office fizzed with relief and enthusiasm when I chuckled how hungry I was—I was in for a surprise, Erin nudged.
The clock hit noon. “Happy National Lobster Day and welcome to Boston!” our office roared.
My Repettos clacked against the marble steps as I ambled down into the fragrance of thick bisque and the jumble of lobster buffets, brochures, and preservation campaigns. The hall jittered with chef aprons, suits, and casual summer-wear; but the distinction soon blurred with a few shared sips and friendly banter. The crowd shyly drew my hand into the world of lobsters.
We cheered and feasted in the name of a holiday unheard of to those outside its marble chambers. I trod my hour-long commute home wondering about the magic of National Lobster Day. The day was a workplace paradise for the politicians, the event of the year for its fishermen, and an invite into the Bostonian identity for me—but another ticking day to the world.
I rush myself into the buzz of the afternoon subway: a man consumed by the pixels of a small screen, a woman watching the colors blur across the window, and myself.
The monotony was now splattered with blotches of red: feisty, distinct, and extremely delicious.