'Thank God it's Friday', she said with a smile. 'Not today, I accept, but tomorrow: soon. In a while (what a boon). I have to say, I'm waiting, anticipating, somewhat salivating at the thought.'
'You're in a hurry to leave, I can tell,' he acknowledged. He was still feeling extremely unwell. The shit was hitting the fan, and it took it out of a man. The chickens were coming home to roost. He'd already scoffed two Snickers bars and a Boost, but his blood sugar was still down. He was in a fix. Perhaps, like her, he should have gone 0.6. . .
'Well, you see, it's like this. I'm experiencing something akin to bliss. I've begun to feel fine; I can turn on the line. The slack-wire, I mean. I walk like a queen - forwards and backwards - with my head held high and my pelvic bone fully centred. Of course, I couldn't have done it on my own. I needed to be mentored. My innate disposition is somewhat slack; I tend to do better with someone on my back. But, by some incredible miracle, I've found a man who has reminded me of the things that I can do. It turns out he's pretty agile, too.'
'So, you'll be quitting us soon,' he said with a grimace. 'You'll be packing your bag.'
'I hope so,' she agreed. 'I feel I'm in need; in need of job satisfaction of sorts that this place can't give. Have you ever read Montaigne's extraordinary essays on how to live? It seems you have almost to die before you think to ask why; why am I here and how should i 'be'? I finally think I'm beginning to see.'
'See what?' he replied, no longer sounding snide. He was beginning to understand why babies cried; no words to speak about how they felt. No way to counter, except with screams of frustration, the arbitrary cards they were dealt.
'This might sound like I'm going off course, but I'm done with this place, even if they've managed to validate yet another bloody horse. It's all so base. It's all about profit, all about cash. It's all about money, honey; really, I do have to dash. This place makes me sick; everyone seems so terribly thick. I'm off to pack my bag, as you suggest. Take what I need and leave all the trash. I now have a lovely little number, a little wash-bag. It comes from Zurich - the company that made it is called Freitag. It has just enough room for toothpaste and toothbrush, tweezers and face cream. I wish you all well but I'm afraid it's auf wiedersehen; I'm orf to follow my dream.'
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