If there's a point to this drabble, it's well concealed…
Approaching the Guillotine
I've long suspected the fabric of the universe was specifically woven to irritate me. Less a design flaw and more a sense of cosmic humor. I'm not so vain as to suggest that the earth revolves around me, but mounting evidence suggests its amusement at my expense is what turns the globe so faithfully upon its sinister axis. The threads of life, matter and space were interlaced based on a blackboard drawing signed by someone who really hates me.
And people wonder why I don't laugh much.
It's not so much having the weight of the world on my shoulders, but having the spiteful galaxy poised dangerously over my head. Like a filled bucket in a doorway, hovering above in clownish anticipation that I will pass through. Which would also explain my hair; it's white from a state of permanent shock.
I should no longer be surprised at each new reminder of the connivances of nature. I hope fervently for a break, except the only thing that breaks is the glass-brick wall of my patience. People jump from the blast path when I explode, blessing their survival while forgetting I'm still in harm's way. Apparently, the debris surrounding me is part of my mystique.
When Director Ewing stabs the floor with her stilettos while joyfully sending my team to the islands, I look to the ceiling expecting the bodily crush of the space/time continuum. Some days the prospect of being flattened seems like an act of kindness. Kate's in league with the universe's menacing scriptwriter. The eerie grin indicates she's read a few chapters ahead and knows just where to insert her brand of persecution. My history of torment runs as long as War and Peace and reads like a gruesome autopsy report.
And Natalie's no help.
"Another Caribbean trip?"
Having missed the last one for pity of Miles, she likes to remind me of the sacrifice. Often. I've steadfastly refused her requests to take her there as reimbursement. Not that I'm lacking sufficient imagination to conjure up the rewards of such a venture. But I try to keep honest thoughts while in the lab. And failure is not a measure of effort.
Nat's eyes, with their appraising sweep, make me feel a bit like bacteria on her slide. The hand is on the hip and I'm performing that internal cringe of one approaching the guillotine.
Natalie's attention returns to the microscope but the grin, applied with that special-order feminine plaster, lurks on her face. "You know, you could do with a tan."
"Do I look like I tan?" My paleness is evidence of the fruitless battle with genetics. Changing it is like attempting to shrink. Sunburn and I have a relationship wrought with avoidance.
"Just saying." She shrugs in that way that suggests she isn't done. It's almost a subtle mocking, which could be considered a step below arguing. "Could be a good look for you."
She's trying to bait me and its working. I have no natural finesse, which is why I prefer a straight fight to subterfuge. The absentminded tucking of hair behind her ear always pulls my eye to her, a fact she has learned and used well.
"Trust me," I head for the door, "scorched flesh is not a good look for me." I practically drank sunscreen during our last island visit.
Just at the threshold, I hear; "Maybe I should be the judge of that."
Right. For her amusement I am to endure the stinging pain of generations of Irish ancestry being tested by the punishing rays of our resident provider of photosynthesis. Natalie's in on the cosmic joke too, I believe. Was there a sign up sheet for that club? And on what bulletin board in Hell was it posted?
On that same board, these photos from our next case must have been popular. We leave tonight for Tobago, the smaller of a twin-island republic in the southern Caribbean. The group waiting to greet us provides clinical aid for a children's shelter and they can be thanked for snapping these painful shots of fragile kids. Natalie is still talking, but my brain is tuning her out. Good thing she's used to that. My musing on the improper are halted in favor of utter sobriety. Because I don't like what I'm reading.
Eva's quick research shows that despite strong overall economic growth, 35 percent of Trinidad and Tobago's population live below the poverty line of 1,200 dollars a year. Most of us can barely live on that per month. Street children, some orphans and others sent out by their parents to beg, are being ravaged by an ailment uncommon for the region. Already burdened by an unnatural fear of failure, I tend to get inundated with fresh waves of polarizing dread whenever kids are involved. And I'm not alone in that. Thinking of Natalie's tender heart for children causes my ears to find her voice, now trailing off as her gaze rises from her work.
"Are you okay?" We both hate that question but it's fairly compulsory for us now.
I shake the starved images from my mind's eye so I can see her fully without mentally attaching stick figure arms to her body. These pictures will be burned and buried when this is over. Unfortunately, some of these kids will too. I don't ask what I missed because I know she'll repeat it should it be vital.
She stands, head tilted as one hand returns to her hip. Clearly the tuning out was not appreciated. Explaining would requiring sharing the file and I'm not ready to impose the images on her just yet. Instead I grant full attention to the obviously important words she must have wasted during my daze.
"I said, which bikini I should pack?"
Was that vital? I may need a crank to wind my jaw up off the floor. Whatever showed on my possibly disfigured face was clearly only a quarter of the shock I felt. Because she was grinning. She should have been preparing to revive me from a fainting spell. But I also understand. She wasn't oblivious to my sudden inner turmoil and this was her way of pulling me from it. To think, the same creator that longs to bring me to an unrivaled level of insanity also made this woman. Now there's a God worth worshipping.
Speech returns just in time to curse her superior skills at artifice. "What makes you think you'll have time to use it?"
"I figured if I let you choose the color," a shrug moves her cascaded hair off her shoulder, "you'd have more incentive to make time for its…use."
Did I need more incentive? Can I get out of this discussion now before the implosion of all that's decent about workplace rules? Too late; I'm visualizing. All I need is detail.
"What are my choices?"
She's pleased that I've picked up the ball and lobbed it back. "Pink, white or purple."
Her voice delivers these options as though mere colors are…naughty. I really shouldn't entertain this kind of temptation. Considering the shades would be a sin worthy of seven Hail Marys. Actually answering would require a hefty donation to Our Mother of Perpetual Sorrow. Any more than that might trigger Armageddon. She waits. We arrive in Tobago on August 1st, their Emancipation Day. Seeing her in any bikini would certainly qualify as freeing. So I do what any righteous, responsible boss would do. Shove aside the taunting fabric of the cruelly woven universe to prowl beneath. Nope. No design flaws there.
"Purple. Definitely."
I ask leniency for this bout of lunacy, which I hear is still a hanging offense. Genuinely, I have no excuse. Special luv to Alamogirl for her vast encouragements this week.