Friday, May. 23, 2003
A your boy is an All Star idiot.
I am having a break with the one co-worker that I kind of wish I wasn't going to have to give up. We are going back and forth with the conversation, as to see who can be the most dry, sarcastic and bitter. I will always lose with her. I am handicapped with compassion. She likes to point this out, then I remind her that I am also sullied with the optimism. When she thinks that she has all the chips I slide in the driest most dirty comment I can muster. She will have to look away when she laughs.
Out of the back of the building, a woman comes up to us full smile,
fingers in her cigarette pack, and asks me if I have a light.
She holds out her smoke, and I hand her my Zippo.
She works it with ease, and hands it back.
Fingers touch palm.
I look down from her face
to the milky pendant she wears around her neck,
and then I look some more.
She says: So, this is where you come to smoke.
I nod. Cold and annoyed that we have been interrupted.
My snide commentary ceases.
And then she moves five feet away, sits down on a milk crate,
looks at me and smiles again.
Eventually she leaves.
Co-worker says: I think she wanted you to talk to her.
I say: About what?
Co-worker says: You are going to need a little help.