You’d think that would be impossible, wouldn’t you? It’s true, though. I do exist, don’t I?
It often feels as if I’m not here, that I’m a figment of my own imagination.
There are days when I feel so lightly connected to the earth that the threads that tether me to the planet are gossamer thin, spun sugar.
A strong gust of wind could dislodge me completely, and I’d lift off and blow away, like one of those seeds in a dandelion clock.
The threads tighten slightly from Monday to Friday. People phone the office to discuss credit lines, send me e-mails about contracts and estimates.
The employees I share an office with—Janey, Loretta, Bernadette and Billy—would notice if I didn’t turn up.
After a few days (I’ve often wondered how many) they would worry that I hadn’t phoned in sick—so unlike me—
and they’d dig out my address from the personnel files. I suppose they’d call the police in the end, wouldn’t they?
Would the officers break down the front door? Find me, covering their faces, gagging at the smell?
That would give them something to talk about in the office. They hate me, but they don’t actually wish me dead.
I don’t think so, anyway. I went to the doctor yesterday. It feels like eons ago.
I got the young doctor this time, the pale chap with the red hair, which I was pleased about.
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