At Least They're Committed

I tenderly pick at the jagged edge on my right pointer fingernail. Despite my best efforts, the nail breaks off right above the quick. “Shit!” I say looking at the pathetic state of my cuticles, et al. My friends have gone to great length to get me a manicure and pedicure for my birthday and it would probably be better if I actually had something to ‘cure.’

“How you doing?” his voice is over my left shoulder and I whip around, pointing my finger skyward.

“Was bad enough that I can’t get all the black polish off, now they’re more desperate than ever!” I come back.

“Not what I meant,” he says. I already knew that.

I turn back around and start plunking away at the keys, doing my job. “Oh, that. I’m fine,” I say indifferently. I really am. At least I think I am.

He rubs my shoulder, looking skyward and sighing wistfully, as if this new magical year, this grand new decade I’m stepping into will be a dream come true. I chuckle. Dream. I dreamed last night there was a school shooting on Oct. 20 and, although I believe I was successful at saving my former boss and the children in my care (including DSII), I ended up with two or three bullets in the neck (couldn’t tell if the first one hit, they came in such fast succession); three more point-blank in my chest. As I lay dying, looking into the blue eyes of my killer, up walked a slender young man with dark, curly hair who plugged my assailant five times in the skull. Too late for me, but not for others. Don’t know about anyone else, but that’s what my dreams are about.

“A fantasy would be nice,” I murmur, still working.

“You never know,” I can see his reflection winking in my monitor. I grimace and roll my eyes and he repeats: “You just never know.”