Marsha stands in her kitchen, flushed and sweating, obviously agitated. Paul, her husband, stands there helpless. Ask me to build a tree house, he says, but this is beyond me.
Marsha is babbling on and gesticulating. Something about a new computer system at work, downsizing, a new young, impatient boss, twelve hour workdays, frantic calls from other confused workers, foot pain, the new administrator hates her sneakers, her neighbor backed into her car, her dog peed on the rug, her daughter's graduation party turned into a police action.
She came close to making a citizen's arrest of a guy who cut her off, but he turned out to be the local tax assessor and that calmed her down quick. But now she is unraveling and I shout Get me a washcloth! Once I held the cool, wet cloth I start with her face, work around the back of her neck, arms and hands. She finally stops shaking and her face returns to normal color, her breathing slows. This woman needs a vacation.
Right then our writing group shows up, immediately inquiring why the coffee wasn't ready and where were the scones? Marsha clenches her fists and growls.
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