I’m the last person who should be saying, hey, don’t talk with your hands. If I actually had to say, “Hey, don’t talk with your hands,” I’m sure I couldn’t say it without waving my hands around in circles like a flight attendant or a castaway trying to flag down a rescue plane. In fact, I don’t think I could utter two coherent words if I were forced to sit on my hands.
When you talk with your hands you look like your molesting the air around you, sticking your fingers in holes and around forbidden curves. Often the air around you is the air around me, and my air doesn’t appreciate it.
In the span of a short sentence you always manage to find and fondle an inanimate object with your right hand while your left hand is pinching an invisible nipple in the air in front of my face. I’m not sure why I don’t stop you right away, why I don’t slap your hand away from the trembling, imagined breast. There has to be some provision in the employee handbook that gives me the power to say, hey, look, you make me uncomfortable when you take advantage of the air like that.
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Friday, June 8, 2007
Dear Robot
Next month will be two years since I left you. Two years since that day I called you and told you that I would not be coming back home to ...
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The last time I saw you, I was fourteen years old. I walked out those double doors while you held one and Cliff held the other. At the time,...
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You are my one weakness. Others can do or say the same things to me, but it?s your voice and your charm that I can?t escape. Just hearing ...
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From time to time I wish I had my grandmother’s ring, which, of course, makes me think of you. I never thought that a material thing could m...