It was a busy day. Nothing out of the ordinary. A couple of confrontations with running around. After dealing with an incredibly pissed off woman I had three people waiting.
Two were cut and dry. In and out. Nothing to think about.
The third sidled up. She’d been wandering around during the madness but hadn’t needed me until now.
“My,” she said in a voice that screamed comforting. “That was quite a performance.”
“Thanks. What can I do for you?” That wasn’t said as harshly as it reads. I’m skilled at going from one thing to another without letting the last issue stay with me.
Many blows to the head makes that very easy.
She said all my running around must have stressed me out to the max! I explained, as far as stress goes, I’m more of a carrier.
“Nonsense. You really should take time in your day for you. I saw you running from thing to thing with a furrowed brow.”
Wrong. When moving from task to task I don’t have much expression at all. When I am dealing with a person it may start off with a pleasant smile but changes to a learned expression reflecting their situation.
This is why I don’t have touchy/feely friends. I know a bunch, but keep them at arms length. If that means I need to be armed, so be it.
They also have a cure for whatever ails ya. A little lavender, eucalyptus and an earlobe rub and you’ll be better than new!
Yeah, that’s never worked for me. I don’t have the time. I say things like,
“Fuck off, you motherfucking, cocksucking, three-balled bastard!”
And I’m ready for the next event. What’s that? A three second recovery? That’s about right. I don’t have time for soothing music. How many soothing notes can you get in three seconds? Two? Sorry, I need a little more speed in my mental.
“You really should get a zen rock garden for the office. After all the running around you could sit down massage your garden imparting a sense of order and a spirit of tranquility.”
What’s she doing? A fucking ad? I don’t have time for that either.
“Actually, I have something like that at home. It calls out to tend to it two, three, sometimes more times a day.”
She slits a wide smile.
“I knew you’d have one to keep your tranquility.”
If I’m so tranquil why the fucks she talking to me about this shit? Does she sell sand and miniature rakes?
“Where do you keep it? I trust in a special place.”
“Yeah, in the bathroom. It’s called a litter box. I’ll be sitting in the living room and hear, ‘Chris! The cats shit and it stinks.’ So I trundle off to tend to it.”
We stand silently for a moment. Enjoying the sense of peace.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No,” she says softly. “I need to go home.”
The door shuts behind her and, ah, tranquility.