Bored Women

What a ruckus they make, distracting my mind, interrupting my flow. So many tittering voices, loud and gut-wrenching. Infecting my ears, boiling my frustration. I can feel my annoyance take form in my head, a sweaty ball of panting emotions that demand attention.

They are like birds in the morning--tireless, ceaseless, painfully perky. They are like mewing cats--the one trying to outshine the other until the noise splits heads better than cop clubs. They are like Catholic children at recess, screaming out their suppressed identities at the designated hour. They have waited for this break with rigid minds and nervous fingers.

These are the bored office pets whose mundane stories and wrinkled calves populate day jobs. Their minds are old; their voices are loud. Too much coffee has revived their systems, and I wait for the silent crash with a half-smile.

They are quiet now, and my creative consciousness tentatively begins to churn again. Yet it remains fearful of another thunderous interruption. It hates to lose what it is in its grasp.

The span of solitude has lasted long. With every moment, I rely on its constancy. My strength returns. And on my confident face a full smile may be seen.