Items that shift about in my head.
Sung to the tune of Annie’s Song, by John Denver
Please fill out my census.
Are you black, white, or asian?
Do you live in the country,
Or in the city?
Do you have any children?
If so, state how many.
You’ll fill out my census,
in 10 years again.
Come, let me count you.
Gerrymander around you.
Let me reckon your assets
Let me find out your age.
Let me stand right beside you
Let me count myself with you
You’ll fill out my census,
in 10 years again.
In public buildings, there are familiar signs such as Emergency Exit and Maximum Occupancy. Some buildings also note if the location is registered as a historical place. I would like some additional signs so I don’t have to wonder any more. Here they are:
Once I have this information—and only then—will I be able to shift my attention and focus on the reason I came to the location.
The power of a single word struck me the other day. I was considering prepositions in the English New Testament and in church language that describe an individual’s relationship with Jesus. Here’s a few with a brief decription.
In life thus far, I’ve emphasized each one of these prepositions at different times and in different ways. There have been seasons where I have been emphatic about particular doctrines that were based on Christ which have fueled me to live for Christ as I seek to be like Christ and grateful that I am in Christ. (If you’ve been to any sort of church service, you’ll recognize these sentiments.)
In retrospect, I’ve frequently missed the experience of with Christ. Not to diminish the transcending omnipresence and majesty of God, but the preposition with has a strong sense of companionship and to some degree, equality. For example, I don’t go on a walk to my wife in our neighborhood, but with my wife. We walk at the same pace, in the same direction, and close to one another. We experience the same perspectives; we hear the same traffic; we smell the same flowers; we step up and down the same curbs together; we experience the same weather. During a simple activity like this, my wife and I share a common experience.
Imagine Jesus with the disciples. Eating with them; walking between villages with them; conversing with them. Jesus was so very present and approachable there are instances when we are floored at the audacity of some requests of Jesus. As one of many examples, in Mark 10:35, the apostles James and John say to Jesus: ”Teacher, we want You to do for us whatever we ask.” Their bold request was not based on ignorance of Jesus’ power, but it was rooted in knowledge. At the time of asking, James and John had spent more than two years with Jesus.
How marvelous and mind-blowing to think: my Creator and Friend is with me. Right now.
As I type.
As you read.
How we would be comforted to remember when sad: Christ is with us.
How we would be encouraged to speak lovingly to others knowing: Christ is with us.
How we would be compelled to choose good activities instead of evil considering: Christ is with us.
How we would find anxieties dispelled when remembering: Christ is with us.
In the Gospel of Mark 13:31, the apostle Peter says to Jesus: “If I have to die with You, I will not deny You!” In my printed Bible, just one thin, fragile page to the right, the same apostle Peter declares: “I do not know this Man of whom you speak” (Mark 14:72).
As if designed by the Bible publisher, the verses are just one page apart. Moreover, Peter’s vigorous assertions are in the exact same position on each of the pages. The paper of my Bible is so thin, I read through Peter’s morning denial while also seeing Peter’s evening oath of allegiance.
One page.
Fellow humans: we are all so dearly broken and fragile.
Peter didn’t make his declaration of faithfulness years before his vehement denial. His spoken commitment to Christ wasn’t eroded over months of doubt-filled and massive hardships. He went from asserting his enduring faithfulness to his Messiah to denying Him within a few hours. Peter’s radical overnight shift in behavior is not aligned with his call to be a “Rock.” This is certainly not the type of action that sets one up to be a pillar of the early Christian Church.
Or is it?
People like Peter, who painfully know their deep frailty are good people to spend time with. They make for good leaders as they express a deep humility. Peter’s denial is not the end of his life as told in the gospels–not even close. Peter goes on to exhibit tremendous tolerance on the Day of Pentecost (Acts 2) in dealing with a Gentile (Acts 10), and in instructing the Church leaders about the grace of Jesus (Acts 15). When reading those accounts, I wonder how history might have gone differently had Peter not had that morning experience.
People who have experienced brokenness by their own failure and then experienced the tenderness of God…. well, they are often quite gentle and understanding with others. Such people are painfully aware that they are just one thin page away from either victory or failure. More importantly, they are aware that the eternal love of God is unchanging no matter which page they are on.
#apostlepeter #humility #Bible
For decades I’ve been a reader of good ol’ fashioned books. But, following the encouragement of so many people, I finally yielded and began listening to a few audiobooks.
Honestly, I’m not impressed. The books I’ve been listening to are incredibly boring or just don’t make sense at all. Here’s the ones I’ve tried.
After hours and hours of listening I just don’t get it. What am I missing with this whole audiobook craze?…
#audiobooks #silly
I find an interesting dissonance between what people *think* is valued by a business as to what *is* actually valued by an business. Someone will apply for a position citing certain business-oriented accomplishments or skills. However, once on the job, that same person will apparently place greater value on other skills and accomplishments–some of which have no positive impact to the business at all. The following is an interesting resume I came across from someone who accurately described the accomplishments they thought most valuable where they have worked. Enjoy!
A dedicated individual looking for the next opportunity to contribute.
Hyperbolic & Ludicrous Assoc., Inc. – Assistant to the Assistant Project Manager (Nov 2018 – Present)
BippityBoppityBoo.com – Coordinator of Managed Coordinated Activities (Mar 2016 – Oct 2018)
Reely Silly, LLC – Co-Supervised Regional Supervisor (Jan 2014 – Feb 2016)
I want to understand human psychology when it comes to solving puzzles–jigsaw puzzles, specifically. Imagine explaining jigsaw puzzles to someone completely unfamiliar with them. Here’s my explanation.
Life is difficult–full of unexpected and unpleasant problems at times. Moreover many people have jobs in which problems are tackled throughout the day. So for fun, here’s what many people CHOOSE to do as a FUN hobby….
Many people like me work at a job at which we solve problems–whether it be financial, relational, medical, marketing, operational, retail, etc. etc. In exchange for our efforts we are compensated with money. We exchange some of that earned money to purchase a box filled with tiny pieces of a broken image–sometimes a photo, a drawing or a painting–really could be anything. Some people like to provide the puzzle manufacturer a photo of their own choosing, say a family portrait. What’s important is that the image has some variation in color. To be a really fun puzzle, the less variation in color the better. So, like a photo of a cloudless blue sky is FAR more fun than a photo of a crowded subway station.
So, anyway, we choose to exchange money for a box filled with pieces of an image that the puzzle manufacturer has systematically sliced into a myriad of similarly-sized pieces. Again, if a manufacturer wants to make a puzzle that’s more fun, they divide the image into more and more pieces. A 1,000 piece puzzle of an uninterrupted white sandy beach is WAY more fun than a 100 piece puzzle of a bag of colorful marbles.
The making of fun is not yet over. The manufacturer has carefully carved out the pieces to be interlocking. Some of the ways they connect are pretty obvious–like a large knob fitting into a large socket. But, sometimes they interlock in very similar ways with just minor differences. Having five variations of a knob-and-socket connection that can be easily confused with one another is SO much more fun than just having one. It provides the pleasure of pieces almost appearing as fitting together, but not quite.
As one might imagine, choosing to exchange earned money to buy a box of broken pieces of an image, and carefully reassemble all those pieces into the original image, could take some time. Similar to exchanging money to have the opportunity to work on a problem the puzzle manufacturer created, time is being exchanged for non problem-solving activities–such as napping.
Frequently, these puzzles don’t get completed in one sitting. Especially when there’s hundreds or thousands of pieces. During the entire process of reassembling the image, it’s tremendously delicate, can’t be moved, and takes up at least twice as much surface area as the final image. The whole time, the pieces are very small–thus making them easy to lose. (There’s nothing nearly as FUN as being on piece 999 of a 1,000 piece puzzle only to realize that a piece got sucked up by your Hoover 3 weeks ago.)
Once all the pieces have been properly reassembled to reflect the original image, the puzzle is complete. This experience–paid in both money and time–is complete. At least temporarily. Typically, in far less time than was required to complete the puzzle, the puzzle is summarily destroyed. The image is manually decomposed back to its atomic structure of individual pieces. No pieces must be left attached to one another, lest the puzzle be somewhat be simpler to complete on a subsequent experience. All the pieces are returned to the box, and then the box is placed on a shelf, awaiting to be completed again.
Finally, I find it interesting that individuals who theoretically have the most significant problems to tackle in this world also choose to complete puzzles. I recall learning that the President of the US spent time with some cabinet members at Camp David to work on jigsaw puzzles. Are there not enough problems in the country and the world? During “downtime” the President and associates need to find recreational problems to solve? Interesting human psychology indeed.
I’ve done it. I’ve neatly classified the entire United States population into two types. It’s a straightforward bifurcation that will radically simplify all of our lives. Ready?
There are two types of popcorn eaters: Selectors and Stuffers. You can walk into any movie theater and figure out who’s-who within a few minutes. Allow me to expand.
Selectors are those individuals who, with dainty thumb and forefinger, dip into a bucket of popcorn and pluck one–and only one–piece of popcorn and place it into their mouth. They do not repeat the process until the first piece is nearly or fully consumed.
Stuffers are those individuals who, claw into the bucket of popcorn until a fistful is fully and delicately captured (a piece may fall out the side). These people deposit the entire payload into their mouth, gyrating both mouth and hand until all pieces have successfully transferred into the awaiting receptacle.
I hope this helps you as it does me. I have other similar taxonomies that are helpful social navigation aids, such as: how someone arranges their play Monopoly money.
I received a warning letter the other day. Rather than attempt to describe, I’ll just include the body of the letter in full.
Dear Sir:
It is come to our attention that you have been frequently using thyme in your jokes. Thyme is an herb used primarily for cooking. It should not be used in connection with chronology. Therefore, immediately cease and desist from using thyme in sentences such as the following:
Asking clerks at a nursery: “Excuse me, do you have the thyme?” and then laughing uncontrollably when the clerk replies with the time of day.
Stating “Thyme heals all wounds” when rubbing a spice bottle on a child’s bruise.
Coming to a meeting late while holding a nearly-empty spice bottle stating: “Sorry I’m late everyone. I’m running short on thyme today.”
Rotating spice bottles of thyme around each other while singing “Time after Time” by Cyndi Lauper
Throwing sprigs of thyme up in the air, crying: “Thyme’s up!”
This is your final warning. Any further violations will be reported to the Spice Anti-Defamation League and you will be referred to the Department of Grandpa Humor.
PART 1
Teresa was glad to get a break from the routine work at her desk. A chance to get up, move around, and stretch her legs. Her mission was simple enough: get another ream of copy paper from the storage cabinet. She sighed a unique combination of exasperation and exhaustion. All she wanted to do was print a two-page document. The paper tray at the printer was apparently empty. It was only 9:45 and she’d already nursed her latte dry. This was not the way she planned to start this Tuesday.
Through the catacombs of gray cubicle walls in a stylish cardigan, Teresa weaved her way to the storage cabinet. Though it wasn’t her responsibility, she could certainly refill the paper tray. But only if there was paper with which to refill it. With empty shelves in the cabinet it became clear the last person who claimed the last package had likely forgotten to re-order the supplies. She could guess who it was. Well, in fact, she did know who: Carl. Or, “him-of-whom-we-do-not-speak.” Failing to keep a paper supply well-stocked was the least of his incompetent shortcomings.
With a turn on her heels, and a slightly-more-forceful close of the cabinet than if there had been paper, she weaved back through a different set of cubicles to head downstairs to the loading dock and warehouse. Even before she opened the heavy door, she heard the rock music blaring. Inside, she gently envied the bustle of activity amidst the cool moist air. The building was erected in the late 1800’s and the brick work, huge wooden beams, and aging floors had both a distinct charm and mystique.
“Hi Dale!” she yelled. The rhythmic beep of a forklift failed to keep tempo with the music.
“Terry” he acknowledged cheerily, looking up from his clipboard above his glasses.
Terry…Terry…Only a few people called her Terry–mostly people she grew up with. She left for college as Terry. She intentionally returned as Teresa. Most people caught the subtlety of how she introduced herself when she came back. Most people.
“Hey Dale, do your folks have any copier paper down here? Somebody forgot to re-stock upstairs.” She had long wished she could come up with a nickname for “Dale”–something as a reparte to his “Terry”–but she always came up short.
“Dunno. Probably. I’d check over there.” He jerked his thumb back towards a dimly-lit area.”
She smiled quickly and gave a quick thanks. She made her way to the dark shelves. On a sunny day, the few casement windows provided a little glimpse into the world above, but today, the gray sky and the drizzling rain made the shelves and cramped space seem all the more unpleasant.
She sighed again. These shelves looked like they dated from when the building was filled with furniture, picture frames, lamps, dishes, clothing, and household items. For at least 50 years the building had been a warehouse that was a sort of half-way house for auctioned goods and estate sales. With this history, it was incongruous to seek some ancient computer manuals and a Nerf basketball hoop. There was paper, but it was old letterhead, ironically with the old company address and logo. Another sigh. “I’m just printing one two-page document” she thought “That’s all. At this point, I could just do it at home.” But now her mission was greater than a document. She had a responsibility to restock the supply upstairs. If it wasn’t going to be her, it would have to be someone else.
Squatting down, she noticed a box on a low shelf next to her. It was a small box–pushed all the way to the back of the shelf. Like a chameleon, it’s color caused it to nearly blend into its surroundings in the faint light. Its size was about the size of an old brick or large matchbox The fact that it sat by itself, intrigued Teresa. She picked up her pace in her clean up efforts.
The first thing she noticed when she picked up and pulled the box toward her, is that it was heavy. Deceptively heavy. She had expected it to be lightweight, being only empty or maybe filled with a few odds and ends. Instead, it had the weight of several pounds. Pulling it forward, she brought it out into the dim light. It was a neatly crafted wooden box with a sliding lid that fit into a groove. There was a decorative wood-burned carving a vine on either side. On the lid, someone had wood-burned the words “Truth Matches.”
“Hmm. Truth matches.” Teresa said to herself. She slid back the lid part way. A fragrant woody smell emanated from the box as if finally released from a century of being unappreciated. Given its weight, she expected to find it filled with lead or some heavy metal. But, instead, all that was inside was a nearly-empty box of ordinary kitchen matches. With some effort, she shook the box from side to side expecting to see something heavy roll into view. Nothing. She closed the lid and took a closer look at the box.
There was nothing unique about the box that would give it such weight that she could observe. It looked like something her grandfather would have carved back for her when she was a little girl. He had a knack for finding interesting bits of wood throughout the year, and transforming them during evenings. He turned bits of pine wood into cute Christmas ornaments. He made a slab of oak into a mirror for grandma, with their names and anniversary date wood-burned into it. That’s what this box reminded her of–something like her grandfather would make, or something from a time in days gone by when craftsmanship like this was more common and more appreciated.
She suddenly realized that her knees were starting to cramp. She’d been squatting for a few minutes while wearing flats on a concrete floor in a damp corner.
“Hey Dale.” She said, coming up behind him. His head was tilted awkwardly back as he looked through the lower half his bifocals. He stil squinted as he tried to read a label on a carton.
Turning around, he peered over his glasses. “Any paper back there?” he asked.
“No. Besides some junk from the old office there wasn’t much. I did find this though.” She held the box with two hands. She had been careful to not stand too close to Dale when she approached and she was especially careful now to hold it close. “It reminds me of something my grandfather made. If found it tucked back on a bottom shelf. It must be from the warehouse days. If it’s been sitting there that long, I figured no one would miss it now.”
While she certainly could have left with the box, she didn’t feel right about taking something out of Dale’s dominion without his knowing. While she was certain he could care less about an old box, it seemed the decent thing to let him know.
“Nope. Have at it. Nice to find a little something to brighten a dreary day.” He turned back to squinting up at the label.
He didn’t ask to hold the box. She was glad.
Moving by him quickly he called out absent-mindedly: “See ya Terry.”
Those were the last words she heard as she stepped into the stairwell. With the heavy door closing behind her, the word “Terry” seemed to echo in the barren concrete chamber. Stopping momentarily, she sighed. She looked ahead for just a moment and then remembered the box. She’d made out safely. Now, it was just a matter of taking it home and looking at it more closely. The vine in the woodcarving on the sides reminded her of something she’d seen elsewhere, but she wasn’t quite sure.
Having navigated the gray maze of cubicles, she made it back to her desk unquestioned and without running into anyone. She stuffed the box into her middle desk drawer next to her purse. And sat back down. Upon facing her computer monitor, her mind went blank. What had caused her to get up and go downstairs in the first place? Her report…Paper! “Aagh” she said softly. She spun her chair back around to go back to the copy room. She was starting to get up when she saw “him-of-whom-we-do-not-speak” stepping up to her half-height cubicle wall. His right arm leaned awkwardly on the wall. In his left hand he shook some papers at Teresa’s eye level.
“Teresa…” Perhaps it was the nasal quality in his voice that made things seem louder. Or, perhaps it was the loudness of his voice that brought out the nasal quality. Regardless, his voice had a tone that was rarely considered decent or human. “If you happen notice that the printer’s out of paper, it’s considered common courtesy to refill it.” He pushed the papers towards her.
She took them from him calmly. It was clear he’d either been recently eating some barbeque chips or cheese puffs. There were little orange thumbprints on her report. Teresa paused and politely replied: “Thank you. I agree.” Though he was certainly intentionally trying to be insulting, it was hard to be too angry. She had compassion on him, and she had little concern for trying to be proven right in his eyes.
“Hrmph” he snorted smugly while rolling his eyes. His arm slid clumsily off the cubicle as he turned to walk away. Over his shoulder, he called out: “Oh yeah, and if you’re wondering, I refilled it.” Such an awkwardly-spoken, ill-timed, and ill-mannered comment would be one of his last. On Friday morning he learned that his position had been eliminated as part of a re-organization. On that afternoon, the items from his desk occupied a space next to Ed Morgan’s trophies and Nerf basketball hoop. Like a soul-less graveyard, the mementos of top-performer and poor-performer lay side by side.
PART 2
Teresa glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 6:00, the knock at the door was on time, but she still found she wasn’t ready. Brushing back a stray strand of hair, she went to the door.
“Hi sweetie” she said, opening the door with a kiss to the cheek.
“How was your day? Mmm. That smells good.” He didn’t wait for an answer to the first before stepping in.
Alan instinctively slid his dress shoes off just inside the door. After getting to know Teresa over the past years, and especially since their engagement, he knew better than to let the mud from today’s rain make contact with one of her light-colored area rugs.
“Eggplant Parmisagna” she smiled modestly. “But honestly, I think it’s the garlic bread that smells good.”
“Wonderful. I’m starving. I didn’t get much of a lunch today.”
They both chuckled as they retreated back into the kitchen. Teresa was an excellent cook. She thrived in the order coupled with creativity found in cooking. While Alan appreciated Teresa’s skill, he was only an admirer. He went to work on something he could not fail at–pouring water into two glasses at the table.
“Table looks nice” he complemented, noticing how she set out a tablecloth and placemats. “Are these napkin rings new? I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.” Alan held it up to take a closer look. He was an accountant by profession, and his eye for detail–whether with numbers or with craftsmanship–was consistent.
“Yep. My sister sent those to me at Christmas, but I hadn’t had a chance to use them yet. She said they reminded her of our cats when we were kids.”
The napkin rings were porcelain and finely painted. Each one was of a cat painted diffently. One was a tabby with a paw on a blue ball of yarn. The other was a gray cat with a yellow ball of yarn. A napkin went through the space between the cat and the yarn.
“They’re pretty” Alan observed. “Want me to light the candles?” He asked.
“Oh! That reminds me” Teresa brightened. She set down the bread she was slicing, wiped her hand on a dishtowel and stepped out of the room. When she came back she was holding the box she had claimed earlier in the day.
Holding it out in front of her, she asked, “How much do you think this weighs?”
“Ummm. I dunno. What’s inside it?”
“Matches.”
“Like wooden matches?”
“Yeah. Regular old kitchen matches.”
“Ummm. Is the box made of wood?”
“Yes. Just plain wood.” Her emphasizing “wood” revealed she was getting a bit impatient now. Alan was always so accurate. She just wanted him to guess so she could prove him wrong and see the look of surprise on his face.
“So, if it’s a wooden box, with wooden matches, then it’s probably just… Wait. How full is the box?”
“Oh forget it. You don’t need to guess it in grams!” She half-laughed and half-grimaced. “Here, hold it yourself, but don’t drop it. It’s heavier than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
Teresa didn’t reply. She reached out her arms and slowly placed the box into his hands.
“Woah! That is heavy!” He exclaimed. He was surprised as she’d expected. “What’s in it besides matches?” he asked as he slid back the lid.
Like Teresa had done earlier, and like he had done with the cat napkin ring holders, he examined it in detail. They discussed the likely age of the box, its origin, the design on the side, and the meaning of the words on the top. Neither of them could figure out what would make the box so heavy. There was nothing unique about the wood or the matches. There was no room for a hidden compartment. It was a mystery indeed.
“Well, anyway” Alan said, “let’s at least use one of the matches.” With a poorly-imitated French accent he added: “It will be a nice romantic touch and add penache to your wonderful dinner.”
He took one of the matches and struck it on a small piece of sandpaper attached to the sidelid. The flame burned white, then blue, then yellow. He lit both candles with it, and then blew it out. “So where did you find the matches?”
Carrying over the Eggplant Parmesagna and the basket filled with bread, Teresa replied: “At work. Down at shipping. It must’ve been leftover from the warehouse days.”
“And they let you keep it huh?” he asked, unfolding his napkin into his lap.
“Yeah. It reminded me of something my grandpa Mike used to make when I was a girl.”
“Heh. Yeah. It does have an old-fashioned look about it. Can’t figure out the weight of it though. Well, let’s pray.”
With a routine they’d gone through dozens of times before, Teresa and Alan took each other’s hands across the table. Both bowing their heads, Alan began: “Lord God, thank you for the food that we have here. Thank you that Teresa is such a good cook, even though I’ve never liked Eggplant Parmesagna. Thank you for giving us both good jobs. I do ask that Ken would stop being so selfish and give me the Dollinger account and that he’d step up and just fire Sandra. Amen.”
This was undoubtedly the most awkward and unusual prayer he had ever said, or Teresa had ever heard. After the closing “Amen,” their hands slid apart. Teresa slowly turned up to look at him, squinting in the flickering candlelight.
“What was that about Ken and Sandra?” she inquired?
Alan looked equally puzzled himself. “Ummm. Well, yeah. I’m not so sure why I said that right now.” He chuckled nervously. “I admit I’m fed up of watching Sandra mismanage the Dollinger account. That’s one of our key accounts and everybody knows it, Ken knows it too. Sandra’s incompetent, lazy, and a real liability to the organization. Ken sees it too. He told me. He’s just too scared to handle the repercussions if he lets her go.”
“Wow!” Teresa exclaimed, her slightly titled to one side. “I’ve never heard you talk that way Alan.”
“Yeah. Me neither,” sheepishly. “And um, the thing about the eggplant. Well, I didn’t want to be unkind, but honestly, I’ve never liked it.”
“But you had it on our first date” she protested.
“I only ordered it because I thought you were a vegetarian. You ordered it first, and so I thought I’d go along. After all,” he paused “I was trying to win your heart.” He had a pleading grin that seemed to instantly defuse the tension.
Pushing the basket of bread towards him, Teresa teased “Well at least you have bread to eat. I love eggplant.”
“Oh I’ll still eat it” protestingly. “I just might pick out the eggplant.”
There was a pause while they both took a few forkfulls. Alan was slower going as he carefully worked around the eggplant. It was clear neither were exactly sure how conversation would go next.
Alan led out, “So, aside from the mystery box, how was your day?”
“Pretty usual.” she replied reaching for the bread, grateful for a light-hearted topic. She reached for the bread. “Oh. This was funny” she laughed, suddenly remembering. “The whole box thing came about because I needed to get some paper to print. Michael forgot to re-stock the printer with paper and I must have been the first to notice. It was in looking for the paper that I found the box.” She buttered a slice of bread while Alan continued to intently divide eggplant, cheese, and sauce.
“Anyway,” she continued, “after I put the box back at my desk, I still didn’t have any paper. Well, guess who reloaded the printer during that time?” She paused for dramatic effect. Alan took a mouthful and gave an “I dunno” type of look.
“Michael! He comes waltzing by my desk, with my report. He apparently loaded the printer with the paper, my job went through, and he picked it up.” She chuckled to herself. “That guy is such a pig. He is just gross to look at. I have pity on the guy, but I would’ve loved to just jam that report right down his throat and give him a swift kick.”
Alan had stopped chewing. His fork was suspended between plate and mouth.
Slowly, he said “That’s interesting Teresa.”
“Yeah.” Teresa replied. Her eyes darted left and right, clearly reviewing the things she just said. Then with renewed fervor she went on: “And you know he had the audacity to tell me about common courtesy. Common courtesy! This is the same guy who doesn’t clean up his dishes in the breakroom, plays games online when he should be working, and has the most disgusting computer keyboard I have ever seen!” Here she paused and looked maniacally off into the distance past Alan’s head. “If I could fire him, I would make him lick his computer keyboard clean before I kicked his pasty-face out the door.”
Alan hadn’t moved. Slowly, he repeated, “Wow. That’s interesting Teresa. I, um, I’ve really never heard you talk this way before. You sound pretty angry.”
Teresa’s eyes refocused back on Alan’s, and then down back to her plate in shame. She looked back up at him with bewilderment mixed with fear and sorrow. “Yeah…I’m um…I’m not quite sure why I said all that. I um…I really do have compassion on Michael, but he does frustrate me.”
“Heh” his eyebrows raised and lips tight. “I guess so.”
An awkward pause filled the next few moments. Another bite of bread. Another forkfull of eggplant-less parmesagna. A flicker of the candlelight.
Neither finished their meal that night. Something about it just didn’t settle right. Even years later–after they had been married for some time–neither brought up the conversation from that night. Of course, they never lit a candle with one of those matches again either.
Mind Furniture