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THEY ALMOST ALWAYS COME HOME
While I wait for yet another pot of coffee to brew, I brush toast crumbs—some forgotten breakfast—off the butcher block counter into my hand. Now what? I can’t think what to do with them.
The phone rings.
It’s Greg’s district manager again. He’s the pasty-faced, chopstick-thin undertaker hovering just offstage in a lame western movie.
No, no word from Greg yet. Yes, I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something. Yes, I understand what a difficult position this has put you in, Mr. Sensitive. I mean, Mr. Stenner. Can we request a temporary leave of absence for Greg or . . .? Of course, I understand. Not fair to the company, sure. Only have so much patience, uh huh. God bless you too.
Oh, and thanks for caring that my life is falling apart and my husband is either muerto or just fine but not with me and either way he’s a dead man.
I slam the phone into its base station, then apologize to it.
The sweat in my palm reconstituted the bread crumbs during the call. Wastebasket. That’s what one does with crumbs.
How long will it take me to figure out what to do with the crumbs of my life?
And where will I find a basket large enough for the pieces?