The first hour of Imaginary Keith’s day is spent listening to The Other crying. Her life has no direction. She is lost. What’s she to do. One day she is fine, the next a mess. Her words, not his. Crying and crying and crying.
One voice thinks: how sad.
One voice thinks: tomorrow she won’t even remember.
One voice thinks: no kidding.
One voice thinks: take a number, get in line.
One voice thinks: how will this effect my upcoming trip.
One voice thinks: she will never get a job.
One voice thinks: why does she do this.
One voice thinks: Fridays are always the worst.
One voice thinks: I need to get out of here.
One voice thinks: Run.
One voice thinks: Be concerned.
One voice thinks: No, look concerned.
One voice thinks: nothing.
And then another voice agrees.
And even though Imaginary Keith and I both watch from a safe distance, we know it will ruin our day. We will get into the car and drive away. Imaginary Keith will fall into a stupor, and I will return no phone calls. He will write not one word and I will make not one dollar.
And one voice will quietly think: two years . . . this has been your day for two years.