Deena I'm glad it helped. And Connie, is it wrong that in addition to totally empathizing with you (cause I had someone I love in the med system too) I laughed?

Those are both so vivid.

I didn't think I'd have one for this topic, but I seem to

People I Did Not Kill Today

I keep a small bottle of arsenic in my apron pocket. It keeps my spirits up. All those customers who swear they said “latte” when I know they said “espresso”, or forgot to request soy, or think orders take less time to fill when they're in a hurry, well, they get an extra sweet smile as I say “Have a nice day” and think “I just saved your life”.

It's a real boon to customer service, my secret extra shot. I hardly ever even take it out, just knowing it's there is enough. Usually.

very nice, -t. Put a big grin on my face.

is it wrong that in addition to totally empathizing with you (cause I had someone I love in the med system too) I laughed

Oh, no problem. That day has entered the legends of my circle of friends.

Oh lovely -t. I like that.

Thanks, guys. I'm glad y'all like. It's a little frightening how quickly and completely that one came to me

-t

Bwah!

That's actually not a bad idea, at least as a fantasy. You could carry a little bottle with a handmade label: "Iocaine Powder", with curlicues and scrollwork, and fill it with baking soda or powdered sugar. Just to have it with you and tell yourself you *could* use it, if sufficiently provoked, might be enough to offset most troublesome patrons.

Well-written too, -t!

I think you should market it. That which you do not smell...

Someone I Didn’t Kill

Spring 1997

I still remember how beautiful the day was when I considered it, out on the streets surrounding the university, a little breeze blowing in the trees, no hint of the inferno to come. It probably *could* have been a day to consider life, considering I found out the student union sold Ben and Jerry’s. The memory that doesn’t last is what precipitated the initial slide, yeah, ten years ago, it almost ended my life and now I can’t retain it. Maybe it was a low grade, or my crusty Editing prof crossing some invisible line between “crusty coot” and just plain bastard. And of course, I didn’t say anything. I never did. Maybe it was six months of watching four other women talk and argue with their mouths full before I’d come fully conscious, and not being able to see more than more of the same, stretching on till my hair went grey and my soul gave out,my dead hands gripping my useless sheepskin and a note that said “Hi, Mom!"

A Suburban rattled by,rap bass cranked to 11, and startled, I pulled back, thinking “Dude, you could kill somebody!” And then, as if it were a poem in lit class, I took the words apart, and realized, at least for these purposes, that I was somebody. The thought gave me the first excitement I had in months. I wasn’t any good with my electric chair either; I could take myself out and it would mostly look like an accident. I suppose it’s my innate Drama that kept me here, because I didn’t just become crazed with my revelation and become adapted road pizza that very day. Always a storyteller, I wanted to find the right moment, and it never quite arrived. Very quickly, I was too busy to die. Although I still wish I’d been so filled with love of life that this moment was just youthful craziness, like thinking Michael Jackson straight.

That moment hasn’t happened either.