He never shouts, like me. He never throws himself on the floor, gnashing his teeth, biting carpets, and wailing like I do. His body does not spontaneously burst into an asteroid-sized flaming ball of elemental finger-pointing righteousness, like mine. He is rarely slighted, wounded, and never dramatically heart-broken with exploding theatrical and sacrificial love blood, as I am. (Daily.)
I may collapse, sobbing, overwhelmed, beaten, destroyed. But Dig is always dignified. He remains calm, even under the most emotionally stressful and difficult circumstances. He is a constant. He is rock. He is mountain block. He is granite. He is in Hong Kong.
I stare at his office floor.
I tidy up his paper trail. Just a little bit. Then a little bit more.
Suddenly everything is tidy. And the shredder is full.*
I have never seen granite when it explodes.
* Not really, Dig! Only kidding! About the shredder. Of course it is not full. (I emptied it. Twice.)
1 comment:
Not exactly ecstatic then Grit?! Just think you could have been over here visiting me and freezing your arse off!
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