“Well, I haven’t become aware of any additional support needs, and I’m fully integrated into the community, June,” I said.
She smiled weakly. “Work going OK? I see you’re a...” she consulted the file again “... you work in an office?”
“Work is fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
“What about home?” she said, looking round the room, her eyes lingering on my big green pouf,
which is shaped like a giant frog and was part of the charity furniture donation I’d received when I first moved in.
I’d grown very fond of his bulbous eyes and giant pink tongue over the years.
One night, a vodka night, I’d drawn a big housefly, Musca domestica, on his tongue with a pilfered Sharpie.
I’m not artistically gifted in any way, but it was, in my humble opinion, a fair rendering of the subject matter.
I felt that this act had helped me to take ownership of the donated item, and created something new from something secondhand.
Also, he had looked hungry. June Mullen seemed unable to take her eyes off it.
“Everything’s fine here, June,” I reiterated. “Bills all paid, cordial relations with the neighbors. I’m perfectly comfortable.”
She flicked through the file again, and then inhaled. I knew what she was about to say,
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