Tommy says this every day leading up
to Thanksgiving. Said it last year,
too. And the year before that. Tommy never tires of his jokes.
Tommy and I have gotten very
comfortable working adjacent one another.
If he doesn’t see me as his equal just yet, at least he doesn’t consider
me a subordinate. More like a slightly
demoted peer.
“Why don’t you stand on that mat,
save your ankles, that’s why it’s there.”
I always forget about the rubber-coated
memory-foam mat on my side of the board; probably because there’s no hope left
for my feet or ankles—they hurt constantly, even in orthopedic shoes with
custom-fit supports. I wonder if, on top
of the bursitis, I also have plantar fasciitis in my heel.
Miles
hears Tommy’s concern about my extremities and asks, “Why you bein’ so nice to
her?”
Tommy balks, “What’re you talking
about? I’m always nice.”
“No you not,” Miles responds. “Normally you a asshole.”
