\u201cMy name is Marley.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHi, Marley,\u201d a group of both\neagerly empathetic and utterly unenthused individuals say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m a people-pleasing\nstress-aholic, and I\u2019m genuinely concerned that my hair may be thinning,\u201d I say\nwith the usual hint of sarcasm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The session leader nods her\napproval encouraging me to continue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI really do love my job, and, to\nbe honest, I don\u2019t really want to tell you guys what it is because you\u2019ll\nprobably roll your eyes and wonder why on earth I\u2019m here \u2026 Well, I\u2019m kind of\nwondering the same, so I guess that works,\u201d I sigh a laugh. The room stays\nsilent. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
My eyes shift to the carpet at the\ncenter of the square of oblong tables. A typical office-building carpet of\nblue, red and grey flecks hides the cement below. Why waste the time and money to put a useless piece of fabric on the\nfloor? It still feels like cement.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI run my own content-marketing business; that\u2019s a fancy way to say that I\u2019m a freelancer with no health benefits and a lot of freedom,\u201d I glance up ready for the judgmental stares. Instead, I catch sight of a woman in a grey, knit sweater. She\u2019s staring at the carpet, too. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I look down again. It\u2019s so flat; no\nsupport. Why didn\u2019t they just leave it as cement? It\u2019s not like the flecks of\ncolor make the halls and offices any more inviting. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I look up. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou see, the issue is mainly just\nwith one of my clients. I don\u2019t know what the deal is, but every time I get on\nthe phone with her, my heart starts thumping like a snare drum. It\u2019s so bad I\nhave to tilt the receiver end of the phone behind my ear so she can\u2019t hear me\ntaking deep breaths,\u201d I let out a little laugh, huff, cushioning the end of my\nstatement with a light sarcastic tone. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI could say a lot more, but I\nthink that gives you the gist.\u201d Silence fills the room. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Freeing us from the painfully\nawkward quiet, the meeting coordinator speaks up: \u201cThank you for sharing,\nMarley, and for coming tonight. We\u2019re happy you\u2019re here.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n I smile a closed-mouth grin and\nnod. I missed her name at the start. She\u2019s a thin, fragile-looking woman,\nprobably in her mid-sixties, with long light-brown hair speckled with grey. She\nlooks about like what you\u2019d expect for a stress-aholics anonymous meeting.\nAlthough, I have to admit her eyes feel genuinely kind, and I\u2019d be thrilled to\nhave as much hair as her when I reach 60.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As she begins the evening\u2019s cordial\nwrap-up, I look down and twist the ring on my left thumb. Finally, the\ndismissal arrives. I whisk my purse off the plastic, fold-up chair next to me and\nstart shuffling on my jacket. On my way to the door, I snag another\nchocolate-chip cookie from the refreshments table. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Just as I reach the doorway, I hear\nthe coordinator shout my name in a hushed tone: \u201cMarley.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I pinch my eyes shut, take a breath\nand then turn with bright eyes and a smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes?\u201d I reply trying to mask my\ndispleasure with a cheerful air. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI just wanted to thank you again\nfor coming, dear, and I wanted to let you know that we\u2019re going to have a\npotluck on Saturday at Briar Park that we\u2019d love to have you at,\u201d she says in\nan honestly loving spirit. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAw, thank you. I appreciate the\ninvitation. I think I may already have plans, but if I end up free, I\u2019ll\ndefinitely try to make it,\u201d I say with some genuine appreciation and a lot of\njust trying to end the conversation. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGreat! Well, I hope your plans\nopen up. Here\u2019s my phone number and email address if you need any more\ninformation on the potluck or next month\u2019s meeting,\u201d she says handing me a torn\npiece of notebook paper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Margerie: that\u2019s her name. The name\nstretches diagonally on the small scrap of paper, scribbled in cursive letters\nlike my mother\u2019s beautiful, but practically illegible handwriting. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll be in touch,\u201d I say waving\nthe paper and my hand. Once again, I find my way to the door. Thankfully, I\npass through and down the hall without any more interruptions. As I near the\nbuilding\u2019s front glass doors, I spot the woman in the grey sweater across the\nstreet. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Pushing my way through the door, I\nwatch her slink against the old, brick building and begin shuffling through her\nbag. The bag has some kind of lettering and looks more like a tote from the\ngrocery store than an actual purse. Her hand appears again with a small box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Standing under the lamppost\u2019s\nlight, the brisk night air catches my breath. Looking back across the pavement,\nI spot a cigarette catch hers. The smoldering butt barely lights her face in\nthe dark. She managed to pick one of the only spots along the sidewalk where\nvery little light touches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m guessing she\u2019s not very old. During\nthe couple moments I really studied her during the meeting, I concluded that\nshe had to be right about my age, 25. The lines around her mouth were slightly\nmore pronounced, but the cigarette explains that. Trying not to stare, I fidget\nwith my purse grabbing my phone and keys. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Checking my phone for the time, I\nnotice out of the corner of my eye that she\u2019s slunk all the way to the ground.\nHow can she sit on that nasty, gum- and grime-ridden sidewalk? I see her\nsmother the butt into the ground and pull out another. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Why am I still standing here? Something about the way she had stared down at the carpet in the meeting and the way she stared into the street now gripped me. She had the same look that I feel: where\u2019s the purpose? <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy name is Marley.\u201d \u201cHi, Marley,\u201d a group of both eagerly empathetic and utterly unenthused individuals say. \u201cI\u2019m a people-pleasing stress-aholic, and I\u2019m genuinely concerned that my hair may be thinning,\u201d I say with the usual hint of sarcasm. The session leader nods her approval encouraging me to continue. \u201cI really do love my job, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":698,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"off","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[10],"tags":[19,20],"class_list":["post-666","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-musings","tag-creativewriting","tag-shortstory"],"yoast_head":"\n
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