It was a grey Monday morning and I was facing a puffy face and bloodshot eyes. It’s been a month, and I’m still struggling. Therapy didn’t help, and neither did wine. Which is sad because there’s nothing that wine can’t fix. Or was that supposed to be chocolate?
Oh, but I’m no child anymore, we all have to grow up, and I grew up from chocolate milk to wine. It still didn’t help.
I stood watching my dark circles, wondering how they had gradually become a part of my look. I turned away. Time to get the menial tasks done.
Brush. Wash. Coffee. More coffee.
I locked the door to my house and stepped out for some freshly polluted air. After inhaling the usual carbon dioxide, I walked over to my bicycle to untether it from the lamp post.
I rode. And rode. And rode some more before coming to a screeching halt in front of the high-rise glass building. Looking upwards, I caught the glitter of sunshine on the building’s curves. There were one or two black tuxedos walking to and fro, closely followed by white short skirts in horn-rimmed glasses carrying notepads.
It was time to go in there and be what I was. A slave. And so, I strode in with a confidence I didn’t feel, a glow that rushed makeup had given me, and a smile that fell short of my eyes.
There was Bob, dozing in his chair. He jerked awake as he heard my dragging feet, and relaxed when he saw me. “Oh, it’s just you. Hey,” he managed to stifle his yawn.
“Good morning, Bob!” I rang in the cheeriest voice I could muster. But I needn’t have bothered; Bob knew. Bob understood. We were the same, Bob and I. We work, day in and day out, washing and cleaning up after the leather jackets and fur boots. As they carried the burdens of their electronic books and the weight of the stock market, we just lumbered on with soaking mops and dry towels. We aren’t Bob and Lisa. We are The Maintenance.