A Very Short Story
Peavy didn't want to hear about it so I draped my jacket over the extra chair and got to work.
It dawned on me as I surveyed the Post-its and piles on my desk that my ups and downs weren't necessarily synchronous with the world around me. A kind of cold comfort at first; ultimately fear: half out of the abyss, but still disconnected from the ground.
Peavy thought he'd been there, been through everything, done it all.
I knew mine was far worse than the standard litany of travails: divorce, custody issues, money troubles, sure, but always in the pervasive context of irrationality, of madness, of uncertainty. I was pretty beaten up and unpredictability was about the only thing I could count on.
Peavy asked to borrow my stapler and I impassively handed it to him.
I thought: I should feel better, I ought to be fairly reveling in a week without fireworks, but realize I've come to expect the curveball whenever I'm momentarily inclined to look dead red. And I've been flailing wildly at breaking balls, regularly missing the mark. I can't square up to anything and just want to play the game alone.
Peavy had gone.
THE END
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