The Tongue Has No Bones…

Porto

But its is strong enough to break someone’s spirit.

One early Friday morning as we walked towards our office from an empowerment drill meeting across the adjacent building, we were going by under a garage, still riding high with a smile larger then a cruise liner, I was my usual chipper self, rejoicing, conversing and dancing my way around like an ostrich, putting up a side show of sorts that not even a chicken would comprehend.

It was my attempt to energize the walking dead crew as we crossed the campus as I carelessly embraced the morning without a care in the world, saying Amen to life and end of the week, with both paying dividends in full back to me.

There were four of us in the group and many others walking behind, two laughed at my “routine” but the other, one in particular sour apple, appeared to have had a case of acid reflex as she was not enjoying the dish being served.

Just as we were inching closer to the door as if bitten by a tsetse fly, irate, she turns to me, ”oh gee, what is it with you? You don’t have to be that happy all the time? I mean, oh please! Geez, Lord have mercy!”

Huh?! I was taken aback for a good half an hour. I walked around like a wounded step soul, feeling like a meteorite that landed on terra firma. My spirit was broken, finding my tails in between my legs with a load of dirty underwater stuck on my back. Disconcerted to even think straight, I quick swallowed the poison that had been thrown at me but dejected, I refused to settled in.

I began to question my chicken self. Why did I let her get to me? When did a laid an egg and allowed such egoistic ego invade my territory? Why was it so upsetting that made my nostrils burn? Why? It was just “her”. I mean, who is she? Who died and made her queen of my universe, gave her the ticket to my misery?

With the utensils still on my plate, it quickly came to me, it wasn’t me; it wasn’t my baby to beginning with, so why arbor it? I was not the dejected soul, she was nor was I about to be one either. I was sucked in, contaminated like a bad salad dressing and allowed her to pour it all over my salad.

I wanted it back, yeah, I wanted it back, I decided. I wanted my power back and all the keys to it, now!

I found her walking around like a lost pedigree. Her head down, beaten, dejected. She had a blatant stare I did not care to decipher nor know the story. I sensed one but there was not the task at hand. I went on the dance flour hurricane style. I quietly approached her, tapping her on the shoulder and demanded an apology. She asked for what and I would only say, I was there to take my power back, reclaim the time she stole from me while almost wrecking my spirits.

It had no windows, nor doors and it just went on and on, olive oil, scrambled eggs, puree, bread… all coming out at once from the salad bowl to hearing her, “I am sorry. It was never my intention. It is just…”

And breathe… The End!

©️ Angela Aguiar

Your Not So Perfect Hero

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I left in the middle of the day to run an errand, finding myself cornered by a vulture, aka Tony the dog boss, when I got back in the office, ready to stick his powerful bills in whatever part of my unchartered soul he could penetrate.

He stormed in my cubicle, wanting to know how long it would take me to perform a task. No reason was given, no contract signed but he just wanted to know now and now.

Startled, I asked if he was looking for me to time myself. “Do you want me to stop and go the clock, just like the sprinter in the collegian invitational or the recipe in the oven, the hour, the minute, the second, record every time I stopped to take a minute to breathe or go to the loo, how I went from point A to point B? Do you want it now just like that, obey the light at your street corner traffic light at the moment you walked in, just like the motor vehicle at assembly line or a jeopardy contestant? Do you want me to be my own babysitter?” “Basically”, he replied.

I was in agony to even attempt to answer back. The short stretch bandage over my left arm sucking up blood off me was not an indication to him that all was not well but he looked like he had just come out of the Mardi Gras parade and wasn’t ready to remove his costume just yet.

I was not int the mood to deal with him or anyone else for that matter and he like a dog in heat but crisply replied that I didn’t know, actually I didn’t care; it depends, I remarked. He walked away to I receiving that perfectly crafted meeting invite minutes later, right before quitting time, at four thirty I may add.

I took one look at the email, felt my head spinning, exploding, the fume spewing off my nostrils, my stomach growling, cracking out of my soul, the motor engine creeping up on me with such a force I was ready to puke and make french fries out of him. If swear was a symbol, it would have been my middle name.

I stalled long enough to see the daylight. I heard the saliva floating down my esophagus, the sweat walking slowly across my spine as I calmly step back. I took a deep breath. I needed a few minutes of misery free decongested trafficless moment to ingest it all in and let it be; reflect on it, how I was to control myself long enough not to present him with a platter filled of beautiful colored words and force of pound cake on his forehead.

There I was, engulfed in flames, pacing myself like one enraged roaster in the bathroom, doing the hula dance, jumping off the cliff of beating down notebook to realizing, I had a doctors note, what the heck was I thinking; I had the doctors note. I should have gone home but went to work to clean up a few things but was sent to prison instead. I clicked the declined button faster then I could read the teleprompter, walked by his office and waved at him with a smile to his bewildered face, “good night sir”.