It Was in the Other Jacket

The climbing session ended at seven. I was home by seven-forty, which is a good Tuesday. I set my bag down, went to find my transit card to put it back in its designated spot, I have a designated spot, this is not a disorganized household, and it wasn't there. Not in the bag's front pocket. Not in the side pocket. Not in my leggings pocket. Not on the counter.

What followed was a systematic twenty-minute search that slowly became unsystematic. I emptied the bag completely onto the kitchen table. I checked the climbing gym wristband loop for reasons I cannot explain. I moved the budget sheet. I moved Gerald's pot, as if a transit card might shelter under a pothos. I opened the refrigerator once, briefly, and closed it without acknowledging that I had opened it. The prints leaning against the wall seemed to watch without comment, which I appreciated.

The card was in the jacket hanging by the door. The olive one. The one I hadn't worn in eleven days because I've been defaulting to the heavier coat since the temperature dropped. The transit card favorite migrated pockets the last time I wore it, from the bag to the jacket, which seemed reasonable to the Tuesday version of me who did it and completely invisible to the Tuesday version of me who needed it.

The culprit. The jacket I wasn't wearing. The transit card hiding in plain sight.

I put the card back in its designated spot, which now has a secondary designated spot in the jacket, just in case. The table is mostly restored. The bag's chalk lining is not my problem tonight. There's something almost hopeful about finding a thing you'd given up on, not relieved exactly, just lighter, like the apartment got a little bigger. I'll take it.

The jacket. The pocket. The twenty minutes of my life I will never get back.