Loving My Enemy

The lady at work who hates me is growing on me. Her hatred causes her to whittle down her language to the absolutely essential when speaking to me, which is interesting to both my inner writer and my inner anthropologist. For example, she might walk up to me and hand me a stack of papers, saying, “The dates are wrong.” She displays an admirable restraint in the way she chooses her words. No common banalities such as “hello” escape her lips. Her very terseness sets her apart from our friendly, loquacious coworkers, putting her on another plain of being altogether. Do we talk to keep people from thinking we are strange, unfriendly, unlikable? She has reached a Zen state in which she is free from whoring herself out to the good opinions of others, that old, unhappy Buddha of the office, my hater and my liberator from small and meaningless chat.

Comments

[Suzie Flusie]

Yes, but why'd you get the dates wrong?

[Kristen]

Exactly.

[kinsey charles]

i'd take a whore over an old, unhappy buddha anyday.