When you’re hovering between a nervous breakdown and suicide, being forced to chat with a bubbly woman can push you over the edge. I’m in my eye doctor’s waiting room for my yearly checkup. I didn’t sleep well last night and today I’m so depressed that I’d rather be here than in my apartment full of chores to be done and a grouchy husband to tend to.
I sit down and open my book. “Mrs. Potter, it’s so good to see you again,” chirps the receptionist, who seems unduly excited by my presence. “It’s been a while.” She takes a breath. “What are you reading?”
My head is pounding. “It’s just a book,” I say.
Her voice lowers a pitch. “Oh, I see.”
I had a choice. I could have said, “I’m reading Between You & Me: Confessions of a Comma Queen.”
Then she would have squealed, “Oh, a comma queen. That sounds so interesting. What’s
it about?”
A response was something I couldn’t handle. I lowered my eyes to my book, feeling a twinge of guilt that quickly dissipated.
~ Joan Potter
I sit down and open my book. “Mrs. Potter, it’s so good to see you again,” chirps the receptionist, who seems unduly excited by my presence. “It’s been a while.” She takes a breath. “What are you reading?”
My head is pounding. “It’s just a book,” I say.
Her voice lowers a pitch. “Oh, I see.”
I had a choice. I could have said, “I’m reading Between You & Me: Confessions of a Comma Queen.”
Then she would have squealed, “Oh, a comma queen. That sounds so interesting. What’s
it about?”
A response was something I couldn’t handle. I lowered my eyes to my book, feeling a twinge of guilt that quickly dissipated.
~ Joan Potter
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