...as I most assuredly was at age nineteen going on twenty.
A work colleague asked me one day:
‘You’re good at psychology, aren’t you? What do you reckon
it means when a woman keeps talking about the same man all the time?’
‘She’s probably got a crush on him. Why?’
‘My wife keeps talking about you.’
I should have seen it coming and been more diplomatic,
shouldn’t I? I remember hoping that my face was displaying sufficient concern
to hide any sign of the unavoidable boost to my ego. Oddly enough, he was the
one who helped me fight the fire in the warehouse full of butane that I wrote
about many moons ago. I don’t remember now whether that happened before or after the
conversation related above.
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