What's Missing?

It feel like we’re missing something.

My skin is still greasy, so I know I already put on sunblock.

Do I have my wallet? I check my jacket--left pocket, right pocket, shit, no, not today! Oh, wait. In the bag, of course.

Rooting through the knapsack, I cross more objects off my list: reading glasses, check, wet-naps, check, a pencil, tickets, granola bars, check, check, check.

Did I lock the door? I repeat that mindless reflexive action often enough each time I lock it once more, the experience blends into a single mundane moment in my memory, indistinguishable from any individual instance of locking the door.

Wait, today was different. The key didn’t fit at first, I mistakenly inserted it upside-down. Did I leave it in the door? Nope, right pocket.

Did I forget my phone? Speak of the devil, it vibrates in a hidden inner pocket of my coat as if to say “here I am!”

I just can’t place, it but it still feels like I’m missing something.

We approach the theater. I give the ticket to the doorman.

He glances downwards.

“Um, excuse me, sir,” he says, pointing in the direction of his gaze. “No pants, no entry.”