I took myself to lunch today. I sat in a little bistro, my favorite bistro actually, and listened to Edith Pilaf as I lingered over rustic soup and a perfectly done sandwich. I wore sunglasses and closed my eyes. I was almost in the countryside of France as I ate wild yeast sourdough bread. The sun kissed my face as I almost forgot that my chest is rattling and I am beginning to hate the sound of my breathing.
A vacation in an hour - sipping tea sweetened with dark brown sugar. I nibble shortbread back at my desk and I am satisfied for today. Coffee is waiting for me in the kitchen, my work is spread before me waiting for attention. The pace is slow and languid and I move at the speed of a turtle. I conquer nothing but everything. I turn and sigh.
Overhead the vent is making rhymthic rattles as the ballast in the light vibrates from the throes of the hvac unit. One day Tim will find me standing on my desk beating the light fixture with a baseball bat and my respite is shattered. Then I hear voices in the hallway - lunch is over, done, beaten to a pulp. Goodbye France, Goodbye Jorge.....hello hell.