Excuse me.  I’m right behind you.  We’re enclosed by skyscrapers that let in searing strips of sun, walling us off from the world outside.  Our point A to point B is encased in crisp, metallic blue morning light, punctuated by car horns and the fluttering of pigeon wings.  There are people coming at us from the other direction, effectively denying me my passing lane.  That’s me, bobbing over your shoulder.  Hi.

See, my natural stride has a rhythm, one occasionally nuanced by circumstance, I can’t deny that.  Any number of outside factors–I won’t bore you with specifics–will adjust the spring in my step.  Sometimes the caffeine kicks in later than usual, sometimes an anxious heartbeat, or sometimes, like today, simply lateness will require an upkick to my tempo.

I’m not saying that this is your problem.  Despite our recent introduction, I openly accept that you don’t know me.  You hear my footsteps behind you, see my shadow dancing impatiently, and, with a bowed head, willfully ignore their insistence.  The thing is, sir, we probably work within 500 feet of each other.  Our buildings are most likely identical fortresses of institutional glass and steel, foamcore ceiling panels, white fluorescent squares of light.  Everyone around us is wearing wrinkle-free fabrics and is about to spend the day in an ergonomic chair.  Your Outlook, and mine, and theirs, is a mere five-minute, fits-and-starts elevator-ride, tickticktick tacktack of a password away.

Get off your goddamn Blackberry.