I wake up every morning and try to slump off the misery that had accumulated the day before like the filth that grows under your nails. No matter how many times you clean it out, no matter how much time you spend trying to find the perfect grunge cleaning utensil, it always comes back. There's always some kind of dirt, or left over bit of food or dried skin to pick out from underneath the nail.
I shower, brush my teeth and get dressed. I eat toast with butter, maybe coffee to keep me awake at work and I'm out the door. Driving to work is filled with riviting radio show pranks, over played auto-tuned songs, and traffic. I work in a giant grey monster. And by monster, I mean corporate center. I file things, call people, and work in a cubicule that's just as grey as the outside. Still, in my daily routines, I can't shake the image of the old man from the day before. I can't shake his interest in me. No one is ever "interested" in me. I'm plain. Normal. Unnoticable.
Not as unnoticable as I thought, I guess; as my boss makes his daily rounds through the trenches.
"Wendy!" He says my name like this every day. The type of false excitement people use when they have already summed up their opinion of you without truly knowing you. People who are too busy picking bird shit out their hair to come down to earth with the rest of us.
"Hi.."---I don't believe in false excitment. And I like the smell of soil.
"How are those reports coming?"
"Good, sir." I have no idea what reports he's talking about..I answer the stupid phones..
"Good, good. You know I always like to keep you on my radar." Insert creepy, bleached teeth smile"
"Thank you, sir." Asshole.
I think the best part of my day is when my boss finally walks away from my desk.
The rest of my day is basically filled with answering phones, horrible break room coffee, and avoiding my boss. So you can imagine my mood slightly elivating when it finally comes time to leave. The car ride home takes way too long, as usual, in rush hour traffic. The walk to my apartment building is what I like to consider my own personal workout. Avoiding all the cracks and unfinished holes in the pavement and avoiding the forgotten trash and occasional bum on the sidewalk is quite exhuberating. The lobby to my building smells like it's been raining and the carpet is made of dog fur, as usual. The walk down my hallway is accompanied by a crying baby in 2A, domestic violence in 3C, and the sweet sound of info-mercials from the old lady in 4D, as usual. What isn't usual is the letter taped to my door; a plain envolope, no return address and no name to indicate who it could be from. I don't recognize the hand writing that had so neatly and delicatly painted my name on the front of the the letter. Who could this be from? And how did they know where I lived?
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