One Hundred and Fifty Two

I wasn’t going to write again.  I was going to lie down, go to sleep and never wake up.  Then Don called and asked me to come back to work. 

Don thought he was doing me a favor, so it would have been rude of me to refuse.  But that’s not why I came back.

I tried to kill myself after she died, and was preparing to try again when Don called and offered me a job.  And then the next time I was preparing to kill myself, he called again.  I know it’s only a coincidence, but it’s uncanny.

The company is dying, so it’s a comfortable place for me to be.  Almost everyone I worked with eight years ago is gone now, and the few who remain know it has no future, so it’s quiet as a funeral.  The only sounds are when Bob or I tell each other a joke, and we both chuckle.