This year and last year.
Michael. Matt DeCample. Lisa Fischer. A room echoing with noise.
Empty table next to our overfull one. Kind co-workers, real friend. Tired boss face. People who obviously want to go home. Friend angry that there were no options for nondrinkers besides water.
Conferring with teammates. Realizing one is reliable.
Conferring with teammates. Realizing one is reliable.
Thinking I am sure I can spell a word another team is missing and then discovering I am wrong.
Telling the good teammate what I think the spelling is and then hearing the other team spell it differently and be correct.
Spelling correctly a tricky word.
Spelling correctly several tricky words.
Bungling a word I know how to spell.
Bungling a word I know how to spell.
Being second. Not minding.
Being second. Minding a bit because of the tired boss face.
Going home truly relieved to have survived, with Michael — not having to keep track of my wallet, not having to scurry to my car, Michael being patient with my fizzy energy. Michael disbelieving that I do not mind not winning.
The sad boss face. Relieved but regretful, noticing the too-bright wine faces, scampering across the dark lots and popping into my car to lock that door, alone on the wet streets in the car with no one to impress, realizing how insignificant I feel, starting to cry, shutting that nonsense down because I am driving.
Going straight to bed.
Staying up a little late while the cats that ran to meet me at my lonely door behave like kittens under my feet.
