faking it

The cold rain says March; the calendar says April. And Monday, naturally. I'm tired and distracted and the only energy in my system is coiled up and ready to spring at the first unsuspecting for nothing, if that's what it takes. I venture the length of the building, aiming for the lone sugared soda machine. And once on the way and once on the return I reassure an acquaintance that I'm fine. I sit down with the water I bought in order to feel better, not worse, later. I sigh and survey my small lot. They who are always here are not, those who are never here are. False absolutes, but that is the gist. My work, in those nonsensical words, cut out. I fight my worn-out impulse and strain to be gracious; perhaps she does the same. For an hour or so later, she's caught up, corrected, complimented, and we are both ready to go on.