If We Could Talk, Part 2

Yesterday, it would have been about work and how my stove caught fire in the morning, how I threw handful after handful of flour on the flames and when it finally went out, I had this mess of burned and caked flour everywhere. I’d have told you how I couldn’t leave the kids with that mess, so I took a picture and sent it to my boss, asked him if I could close rather than open so I could clean my kitchen and make it safe for the babes to cook in. 

When I came in at noon, my boss (truly the best I’ve ever had in terms of temperament and commitment to practical matters over bureaucratic work theory) told me he’s leaving. Promoted to the store I filled in at over the summer.

I’d have told you about how he came outside in the late afternoon and talked to me and one of my coworkers:

There’s a lot of room for growth in this company, and you have to take it when it’s there. With the two of you, I don’t see limits to what positions you can move into. Keep working like you’re up for promotion and you will be. That’s the advice I can give you. 

He was saying his goodbyes. Getting to the point. I’ll miss my boss.

Today, I would tell you about the apartment I saw this morning, how it was PERFECT inside. Spacious, old, tons of character and sunshine. But I couldn’t afford it and the landlord seemed a little pervy—I caught him looking at me a couple times in ways that didn’t feel good (caught in the gaze of The Other. We’d talk philosophy and my brand of feminism tonight, make up cartoonish stories about the perverted landlord then fall asleep early together, because both of us prefer the morning.).

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