I’m not fast enough for her. I could blame it on pregnancy brain, if I knew it wasn’t the state of my regular brain. She’s twenty years old and she knows what’s going on. She’s alluring, captivating—sharp as a Henkel knife. She dresses hip-hop, has the perfect quips and is world-wise beyond her twenty years. She has a conviction about everything—if not a conviction, then a momentarily gained stance that can’t be shaken. She rattles me.
If I miss a beat, she’s on it. If I whistle, she tells me to stop. I tried to help her finish a job she started and she informed me that I could find my own job. She has no qualms about putting me in my place. And then I stumble. I drop a metal steaming jug on the floor. I use skim milk instead of whole. I scatter beans on the counter.
I know I can be a bit of a dreamer. I know I am even a bit unusual. I stare into space at times, absorbed by my musings. But let me ask you, if someone’s whistling while they work with gaiety, whose rights take precedence? The happy whistler or the one annoyed by cheer?