The Sound That I'm Hearing Is Only the Sound

Yesterday.

Tonight, I spent a couple of hours on a ladder at the family store, sanding and repainting walls so light a green the color is nearly indistinguishable from the gallery-white ceiling. For me, this was howling good fun. I love painting. I love the perfection of fresh, clean walls and wild possibilities, which is marvelous considering I'd locked myself out of my apartment while Bill Cosby was explaining Black people to Oprah. Note to self: flu leaves one too weak for ordinary activities like breaking and entering. Yes, I'm sure it was a little disconcerting for my neighbors when I was hanging halfway out my living room window and couldn't pull myself up the rest of the way. That'll never happen again. My feet will not again dangle!

Today

My office is shaped like a z, with my cubicle dead in the center. I hear everything. I was emptying an ancient kardex file with a new co-worker and we were talking about technology.

Her: My new phone comes with a stop watch. I can take splits.
Tata: You can be all like, "This conversation is going in circles. Let's see how fast."

Just then, my phone rang. I ran for it and whacked my arm really, really well.

Him: You named a vendor record "ABBY NORMAL"?
Tata: Yep.
Him: I'm putting on the Ritz!
Tata: Hot. I'm hanging up now.

...which I said because I could hear him laughing from less than 40 feet away. You would not believe the bruise,