At 2:03 p.m., gravity takes its coffee break: the city floats, but politely

In the middle of the afternoon, everything lifted by a few centimeters, the general mood included.
This article, slightly weightless itself, promises to land on its feet before the end.

At exactly 2:03 p.m., keys stopped aiming for the tile, slices of toast hesitated between butter-side-down and dignity-up, then chose to hover at eye level, as if to better judge our habits. The fountains, surprised by their own punctuation, produced ellipses in droplets. The sidewalk didn’t move (it has a sense of duty), but handbags began to make little curtsies, very urban. It’s implausible, yes; thank you for noticing, the article had noted it too.

“It’s confirmed: nothing fell, not even my composure,” says Prune Dergon, self-proclaimed horologist of capricious phenomena, holding her umbrella upside down “out of pure narrative logic.” According to her measurements — which she admits she took with a flexible ruler “so as not to crease the air” — the city gained exactly two finger-widths of altitude. To the question “Why 2:03 p.m.?” she replies: “Because 2:02 lacked panache.”

At this point, we interrupt the account for an internal check: can the absurd stand up without help? Yes, answers this article, which finds itself breathing through its line spacing. We tried to reach gravity for comment; it left a short message, fallen… nowhere. The experts consulted (some of whom may exist only on odd-numbered days) agree that this passing lightness has weight, which, let’s admit, suits no one.

At 2:10 p.m., everything settled back down with the modesty of a well-oiled curtain. The clocks, feverish, wanted to make up three seconds, then gave up out of elegance. If you read these lines while clinging to your semicolons, bravo: they were clinging to you, too. We promise an update as soon as common sense finds its badge again; in the meantime, walk gently, the air still remembers your step.