"How's life?" Marceline asks.
Marceline is a large, moody woman who comes at you from all angles. She works here as administrative support, and often times if you're in her office alone, she'll start talking and you'll turn in her direction only to realize she was talking to herself. This happens frequently.
Occasionally, she'll throw you a question out of another galaxy. Part of me thinks she doesn't care; part of me thinks she just wants some human interaction, since as a divorced elderly woman, she doesn't get much.
The question in a flash conjured sour memories of the last week: an illness, then the break up. The front left tire of my car blowing out on the highway. The spare tire blowing out on the highway on the way to the tire shop. The shitty, thin strings I mistakenly put on my guitar two days before recording. A band to manage that can sometimes seem like I'm working with a group of sporadically alcoholic five year olds with full-time jobs. The nights, growing late, cold, and lonesome.
"I'd rather not answer right now," I say to Marceline with a smile. This response elicits hearty laughter.
Ask me next week, Marcy. I'll be fine.