Phone Assistance

She aged twenty years in the span of three or four seconds. The anger drained her face like Gaia calling in a loan of mana. The culprit was a Western Union representative being less than helpful and contradictory. As I sat idly waiting to provide any assistance that I could, I felt bad for the woman. I tried to imagine what events had compounded in her life to cause such a catalytic reaction every time something minor went wrong. I'm not Job, but as I've aged I've learned to write off the annoyances in life and be happy for the lack of tragedy that I've enjoyed. Except when I'm driving. As she withdrew into her own eyes and peered at the gray desktop I felt uncomfortable. The way that a wealthy person must feel in the presence of honest poverty; privilege tugging at conscious like heavy earrings.

I tried to create a scenario where the pallid-faced anger belonged; a raucous New Year's Day celebration on the other end of the phone, the customer service girl splitting time between trying to help the lady in my office and keep the amorous interest of an overly-boozed fall intern. I tried to imagine that the reason that she needed the money wired was because her children had been kidnapped and were to be killed. Children in the hands of ruthless killers allows for disproportionate anger. None of these were the case, however, so I continued to avoid eye contact.

Cornered in my own office, I tried to be productive. I printed an e-mail that I had read a dozen times before, forgetting that my printer is louder than a nuclear test. Life returned to her eyes long enough to flash fire in my direction and then solidified into stone as they returned to the desk. I neatly stacked the pages on my desk and slowly clicked back and forth between open applications, occasionally scrolling up or down a little ways. After another minute or two she wrapped up her call and then sat staring at my desk. She might have sat for several minutes had I not interrupted the silence and asked if everything was corrected. She regained herself and genuinely thanked me, only sharing a small bit of her phone exchange with me anecdotally. I walked her halfway to the door, returned to my desk, and stared at the gray top.

Fall

I'm in love with the summer
but it's fall now and everything is
dead. I woke up and the sheets next to me
were empty and only shards
of leaves remained. Diamonds of brown
perpetually poking through
pillow slips, puncturing my memories
of trysts filled with
warmth and shine.
Gentle breezes taunt from the cracked window.
I never could sleep when I was too warm
but now the ceiling fan brutalizes like
the pounding of the drum and the crack
of the whip, bidding me to row again
as we cross north towards Iceland; Reykjavik
beckoning from the future
and the winter
dispatching
summer with a stern finger and a look
of disappointment; a spurned lover
giving the last look over the shoulder
before becoming the person
that was wanted.