I’m a lucky girl for many reasons but one of them is because I have a few besties. There’s my wife, my mistress and a host of sister wives that make up my A-list. Then there’s the one no one in my friend circle has ever met but he’s the one I talk to most. And by most I mean almost all day, every day.
He’s my office mate and I’m sure he had no idea what was about to befall him when my boss walked me into our shared office last June. And share I have. Over shared, in fact, most days. Everything that goes through my head comes out of my mouth and there is only one thin cubicle wall between me and him. He hears it all.
My office mate hears about Eliza’s tangley hair, Seth’s pant size, Lucille’s boyfriend. He hears about it when we are broke, he hears about my daily schemes to move to Mexico or California or back to the South. He hears about my grandmother’s cooking, my mother’s mildly off color sayings, my sister’s college dorm room. He hears my phone vibrate every time I get a text, which, as you might imagine, is a lot. He hears me arrange play dates, doctor’s appointments and pretty much run my life from where I stand in the space we share. He knows what I ate for breakfast and lunch. He knows what I’ll eat for dinner because I usually search for dinner recipes and I tell him about everything I run across. He knows I want coffee at 3 p.m. and that I have to take walkabouts around campus to think. We are not friends on Facebook because, really, what’s the point? He’s heard it all before. <Read more.>