Snips

"So I've heard you know how to write it,
does it mean you're good at putting things on paper?
Rumors say that you're very sorry.
Oh no you're not sorry, no you're not."

-- "Tonight I Have to Leave It," from Our Ill Wills, by Shout Out Louds

--

Whenever someone passes my cube, my hand instinctively goes for the mouse, to nudge the computer out of screen saver. Black screens do not equal productivity, people; gotta wake those hard drives, too.

Good times, bad times. Mostly shocking myself every time something thumps the desk--my hand, a pad of paper, the stapler--and the acoustic guitar standing sentry in the corner hums a warning discord, the gentle strum of slumber disturbed. The phone gurgles every once in a while.

Today, it spat: a local chamber of commerce madam called, lobbing peevish complaints. She waged a passive-aggressive war and it all ended with a most peaceful truce. Phones returned to cradles with clicking calm.

I think pissy people should stay off the phones. The ear is a poor battlefield, the assailants faceless behind the numbers.

--

There's a cat in my apartment.

She is brown fluff, a queen six inches from the ground. She likes to sprawl sideways and stretch, arching, frozen in cat yoga, until her head, isolated, scans the room for the nearest spectator, the closest potential petter. She rolls, mews, traipsing over cords and under tables where shadows graze and brood with her. Her narrow, slitted eyes are like two Korean dancers, zeroing in perfect unison, focused, with the arrogance of grace. She enjoys my foot and wraps her tummy around my ankle when I stand still. She follows me around my small flat otherwise.

I still don't like cats, but this one's okay. I am a misanthrope to felines generally; some exceptions impress me.