inundated with... life
My oldest son, 18, leaves for college this weekend. I have a pet project I'm completing. My two young boys build star ship forts and chase the dog and pig through the yard most afternoons. Avon rolls forward, backward some days, keeps my pockets half-full of pennies, not enough to survive in this yuppie town, but somehow enough to tip my scale toward hope.
This morning a young career woman called, asked me to bring her a set of specific Avon samples.
"Sorry, ma'am. I don't have samples for the new Anew Alternative Intensive Age Treatment yet. That's a new product. It won't be released for a few more weeks."
I heard her sigh, heavy and long into the phone, as she tapped a stutter against something hard with a metal pen. I tried to remember the color and length of her hair, only recalled a silver-washed leather Dior purse and black stiletto heels.
"I'm just going to find someone new. Don't bother leaving your books with me anymore."
She slammed the telephone into my ear, left me standing, running my hand along the marble tile of my bathroom counter. Customers are like these tiles, I thought. I connect them with grout, keep them clean, washed, try to set things gently upon them. Sometimes they come lose, maybe age or water damage or earthquake. Not much I can do about it but try to keep the clutter down.
12:23:37 PM 
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