Dear Wigleaf,

My office is too damn small. I get elbowed in the ribs a lot. It also reeks of a peculiar combination of cumin, marijuana, and sleep breath every day, all day.

And the things I have seen from my office window! A young lady eating a mixing bowl of spaghetti marinara while driving with her knees; a man squirming out of his pajamas and tossing them into the back, then retrieving his business suit from the floor and jabbing his limbs into it; a nurse reading the Bible propped on her steering wheel; a baby goat strapped in a passenger seat, cocking her head at me with those penetrating eyes.

You were right to remind me of the view though. In the mornings, the sun rises over the plains and paints the fields in washes of copper and gold. In the evenings, the sky dons a stately purple gown and stretches out as if for a roman banquet, while the cattle munch the grass at her feet.

I agree, and though I'll no doubt continue to complain, I imagine I'll stay through December. It's small and stinky, but there's something to be said about an office that, if you stay in it long enough, will always take you home.

Best wishes,

Jennifer






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Read JO's "Umara."

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