welcome to the all-stars

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.


But then

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.