145 lines
4.9 KiB
HTML
145 lines
4.9 KiB
HTML
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<html>
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<title>Zk | Malina</title>
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<h1>Zk | Malina</h1>
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</header>
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<article class="content">
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<p><span class="tag">writing</span> <span class="tag">poetry</span> <span class="tag">fiction</span> <span class="tag">sawtooth</span> <span class="tag">furry</span></p>
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<h2 id="i">I</h2>
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<div class="verse">It was with no small amount of irony
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that Malina lay down all of her finery
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and went to work in a coffee shop.
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The Book and the Bean was a short hop,
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after all, from her home, close enough
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that, after the walk, she was hardly fluffed
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at all. Just a badger, a bit portly, a bit tall,
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who gave up on a job in personal finance, one fall,
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to, as she’d told Cyril, “head for greener pastures.”
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Internally, she couldn’t shake the stress of last year’s
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troubles with the boss. Stupid git.
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She’d promised Cyril that she’d be a good fit
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and make things work out financially.
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“Our house is paid off, we’re substantially
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self sufficient. Far more so than most!”
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she’d said over that evening’s roast.
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“And I’m perfectly willing
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to admit I’ll never make a killing
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working in a coffee shop. And if it doesn’t
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work out, I’m just as willing to admit it wasn’t
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a good idea, and head back to the books.”
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Cyril had given her the weariest of looks
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and shaken his head, and that act, or non-act,
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which showed his opinion of the fact
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that moving from a comfortable CPA position
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to a barista down the road, that that transition
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was, perhaps, one big bad idea.
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“It could work, but Malina,
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please keep an eye on reality.”</div>
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<p><q class="comment">Maybe continue there to more dinner/conversation?</q></p>
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<h2 id="ii">II</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">The problems with boss</q></p>
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<div class="verse">When one’s coworker up and goes missing,
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taking her life and leaving without even kissing
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her husband goodbye,
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it takes every good lie
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you’ve told in the office and either makes you ask
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why you told it, or shatters the carefully constructed mask
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it implies. Your boss, for instance,
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might come after you with some persistence,
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aiming for a kiss here, a touch there,
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Even as he wonders aloud, “Where
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has she gone? And why?” It makes no sense.
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You rebuff every approach and set up a little fence
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around your desk, one made of papers and inboxes,
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and work with your back to a wall to keep that fox’s
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advances at bay. It could be that you’re just, you know,
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imagining things. That your boss is just stooping this low
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not because he’s upset, but because you are.
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Even then, it doesn’t really matter just how far
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he goes. Sigh. He’s still an asshole.
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One day, you reject and rebuff a pass while
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explaining what a shitty thing that is to do,
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and finally tell the truth about how little you care just <em>who</em>
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he thinks he is. He backs off, anger cool and plain,
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but he does back off. He has much to lose, little to gain,
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should you take it up with HR or, heaven forbid, corporate,
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and touches, you know, notoriously difficult to misinterpret.
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How valid could you possibly be? How necessary?
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Your numbers are good, your speed legendary,
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but it’s hard not to feel like mere decoration:
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something pretty. Or worse, some awful temptation.
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Sure, you could just be imagining it,
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now that she’s gone off somewhere, winging it.
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You belong here, though, you’re at home.
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But it’s hard enough to shake impostor syndrome,
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so, soon enough, you leave, too.</div>
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<h2 id="iii">III</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">The first day</q></p>
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<h2 id="iv">IV</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">Settling into a routine</q></p>
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<h2 id="v">V</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">Malina’s existential unhappiness and the search for meaning</q></p>
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<h2 id="vi">VI</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">A day in the life of the coffeeshop</q></p>
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<h2 id="vii">VII</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">Cyril’s interlude</q></p>
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<h2 id="viii">VIII</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">The Book and the Bean</q></p>
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<h2 id="ix">IX</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">A bad day followed by a fight with Cyril</q></p>
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<h2 id="x">X</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">Endless questioning into what happiness means</q></p>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2021-08-13</p>
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