I am typing fatalities as if it were dry cleaning instructions. I don’t feel bad for them: 13,470 fatalities in crashes involving an alcohol-impaired driver. I work in the auto insurance office. I get paid nine dollars an hour to re-type statistics. Instead of death, I think about you.
My nails are getting long. They click as I type. They click like the sound of chattering teeth. It’s cold in this office. It’s only May and the fat boss has the air-conditioning on high. I have a cardigan sweater with blue polka dots on it. I have a tooth brush in my purse because I’m anal-retentive and never know when I’ll decide to brush my teeth. I think about how you said,
“I’m a fucking idiot” You said it when you were out of money at the coffee shop. You stood in line in front of me and you made people angry because you held them up for work. I paid for your drink, then mine and you said,
“Thanks, that was embarrassing.” I felt embarrassed for you. You said you liked my sweater. I’m sure you felt like you had to say it because I bought your iced Americano with half-n-half. The sweater is hideous. I said, “If I were you, I would’ve ordered a regular coffee. It’s cheaper.”
I think my long nails make me sound professional when I type. I think the fat boss knows that and that is exactly why he hired me. I only scored 50 percent on my typing test. I am thinking about how I don’t feel bad for you anymore. I can barely afford my own coffee. I want to tell you that next time I’m behind you in line at Starfucks I will not be picking up the tab.