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2001-12-19 || 1:51 p.m. || the mean accounting lady has a melted heart and tobacco stains || there is this beautiful implicit understanding between me and one of the work ladies. (this work lady is very tough. she does not walk softly and she carries a big stick. she smokes benson and hedges extra longs. she has longwinded stories about every bar i've been to in the east bay. she swears while standing at the copy machine. i tried to hug her once, thanks to the touchy feely predisposition of mine, and it was like hugging ice. i pulled away with frostbitten hands.) her son died a few months ago. when we talk about the deep secret meaning of tattoos (she had asked me where in the east bay she could get one. we talked about getting one together), she is talking about marking herself with the indelible print of her son. when i am walking back from my break with my wee diary book in my hands, we talk about diary writing, how it just leads to crying, and she is talking about crying about her son. when she comes to my cubicle and quizzes me on what a twenty-five year old girl does for fun these days, what kinds of trouble i am getting myself into, which bars i am frequenting and what i am up to with the 'fellas,' she is talking about her son, what he would be doing as a twenty three year old, if there is a chance that we would somehow meet and close the gaps of a nice three-pointed living geometric shape of work ladies and silly girls and a boy who shouldn't have died in his sleep without getting a chance to kiss his mother goodbye. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |