Come to Jesus

This morning am sitting at table in kitchen having coffee with Dave. Am not talking because gray skies and brisk breeze blowing through window remind me of the summers of my childhood. Recall yearly ritual of going to buy Salt-Water sandals in the downtown of small city in which grew up. Dave asks what I am thinking about. Tell him. He laughs quite a bit too loudly and too long, asks, Did you grow up in the nineteen fifties? Disregard. Wonder out loud what sandals would look like on grown up feet. Dave makes a horrified face--which well understand--immage of own head very unappealing. Finish coffee, last bit of buttered cinnamon raisin muffin, and am struck low by feeling of extreme dread about work. Sigh. Dave asks if I am thinking about Lawn Darts now. Tell him no, I am thinking about work. On Friday Libby said in sinister tones that on Monday (today)whe would show me how to use the voice recognition system Once and For All. Tell Dave that Libby is absolutely unbearable and that hate ever scrap of my job. Am sorry to report that tears Dave says you might have to have a Come to Jesus about this. Tell him curtly that I think we could probably keep religion out of it. He says, No, it is a Southern expression for We Need to Have a Talk--but more intense--a Pow Wow--smoking the peace pipe. Tell him that I do not wish to smoke anything with Libby. But see that he may have a point. Set off for work with rock solid intention of having talk. During ride down elevator, prepare speech--starting off with a Libby, Please Come Into My Office--which see is the wrong tone entirely. On train begin to lose nerve and start to inwardly criticize attire and hair of everyone else in car--a sure sign of stress. Going up elevator to office decide that will only say something if the opportunity presents itself. Unfortunately the opportunity presents itself immediatly on entering office. Libby is sitting at desk fiddling with phone. You're late, she said. Long and painful scene ensues in which voices get raised, there are accusations of high-handedness (Libby accusing me) of condensention (other way around) until, finally I ask in frustration, has it really been so bad for both of us? at which she bursts into tears and says Yes it Has, and she is pregnant. This, strangely, changes the tenor of the conversation completely and we chatter excitedly about when she is due and what she might call the baby, etc. Offer to get her an herbal tea, which she accepts. From street, call up Dave. Tell him that we talked, that feel utterly drained and yet somehow a bit better. He says, Yes.