The lunch rush of the little restaurant passes by two p.m.
I feel a hand lightly touch my shoulder.
How does being driven to distraction feel?: he asks.
Like being hyper-focused yet still clicking the submit button and immediately realizing your digital letter included a typo.: I reply.
Most people include typos in their writing, these days.: he replies.
Not me.: I say.
So your precious words betrayed you?: he asks.
No, they were instructive as regards the affect of your distraction.: I say.
So, I am effective?: he teases.
At the least, the effect you produce in me is no affectation on my behalf: I concede.
And, I wonder: will it still swim in my stomach when I return to handle the dinner rush tonight?