Workload
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She said, “Sorry, this is probably silly,” four times before she told me what was actually wrong. It wasn’t silly. But somewhere along the way, she had learned that needing something required an introduction. An apology. A disclaimer. A way of making herself smaller before the real sentence was allowed to enter the room. I…
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There’s a specific feeling that arrives, for many people, somewhere between three and five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. It isn’t sadness exactly. It isn’t dread, not in the dramatic sense. It’s quieter than that. Something in the body starts to brace. A small heaviness in the chest. A reluctance to commit fully to whatever…