Toward the end of last week (that slice of early summer to close out the month of March), passing under the fence, I saw that there was something written in smallish capitals there. It was twilight when I got to that spot, where the round shapes inserted into the links were dim against a sky that was dark blue fading to black through all the colors in between (red, orange, yellow-green).

THIS IS LI TTERING, it said. I blew past too quickly on the Interstate to read it properly the first time. Lettering? It was, and neatly done at that, but why would someone go to all that trouble to make such a meta statement?

Today, with daylight savings–enhanced clarity, and against a silvery cloudy sky, bright red cups boldly spelled out, THIS IS LITTERING.

It still mystifies me why someone would bother to make this declaration, to create a display of garbage that announces itself as such. Is it meant to be a more sweeping statement? Maybe this person's trying to say that all the words that are exchanged in this public space are pollution of one sort or another. The non-biodegradable clutter of our social and mental lives, that we're nevertheless compelled to collect and pass on to others.

Or, maybe a bunch of teenagers were just really bored.

The rest of this diary is just bits of the continuing nanodrama of my office life.

MONDAY MORNING when I walked in to my cube, my dear beloved balloon was resting gently on the floor in front of my filing drawer. I had to move it aside so I could open the drawer to put my messenger bag in it. I ended up finding a spot for the balloon at the other end of my desk, near my paper recycling bins (I have two of them, though I hardly ever have any need to recycle paper). It was still standing upright, even if it didn't have enough life left to float, and throughout the day I could see it out of the corner of my eye as it swayed this way and that in the slight air currents that otherwise I'd never notice.

I'm getting far too attached. Today, it was a lttle more deflated than the day before.

LATER YESTERDAY MORNING, J sent around an email: She had tea, but was thinking she could be talked into going to coffee guy. Everyone else bowed out, citing sufficient caffeination, but I replied yeah, though I had something already I could be tempted to go. The two of us traded a couple emails saying "You wanna go?" "I dunno, you?" until J came around to my cube and said, "I think we should flip for it." I agreed.

"OK, heads we go, tails we don't," she said, holding up a quarter. She made ready to flip the coin, and then said, "Call it."

"What?"

"You have to call it, since I'm the flipper, you have to be the caller."

"But ... heads we go, tails we don't? What's to call?"

She puzzled over this for a couple seconds, then flipped. It was heads.

"It's fate," I said, picking up my jacket.

"That, and when I saw it was heads, I was happy. I think the main value in coin flipping is to confirm your own gut feeling."

"Like, if it'd been tails, if we'd have said, 'best two out of three'?"

"Exactly."

Coffee guy had a new trainee with him in the kiosk, and he walked her through how to ring up orders. Despite the fact that he's been there for months, and the menu is not exactly extensive, he has to check the price of the drink every time. Anyway, as he was steaming the milk, he mentioned how he's now selling ice cream.

"Yeah, we saw the sign." We'd noted it on Friday, when it was 70 degrees out, and he was actually here in the morning. He was, of course, gone by lunchtime, when people might think of stopping for some ice cream.

He claims that the coffee flavored ice cream in particular is excellent.

THIS MORNING, on the way into the office, J said, "Guess who I saw in the Burlington Mall! Oh wait, now I'm going to tell you when I was going to send around an email when I got into work."

"Well, you can wait ..."

"No, no you have to guess!"

"Um."

"OK, I'll give you a hint. It's someone from around our work environment."

"Not an author?"

"No, more exciting than an author. OK, maybe not."

"Depending on the author, I would guess. OK. It's not anyone we actually work with?"

"No. Coffee guy!" She had pointed him out to her husband, who asked if she was going to go say hi. She decided against.

"Wow. Long commute to run a coffee kiosk."

Today, his placard advertised something called a Bolero. It can apparently come with cream cheese, but neither J nor I had any idea what it was. His helper was still there, and he was open from the beginning of the business day to when I left the office -- a rarity.