Triage
Two years working on the appliances, he finally
walks into my kitchen, my appointment. “Teach
me triage,” I’m practically down on my knees.
“How deep are you into the applied sciences,” he
asks. I revel in being, explain all of the stereotypes,
foregoing my conclusion on contagion. He drops
his briefcase onto the dining room table, lifts a stack
of his best-selling compendia out of the fancy box
of black leather (a faux something-or-other),
spreads them all out like a fan, perfectly, each
title mostly obscured, revealed in elusive yet int
riguing smidgeons. “Well,” he says, picking up one,
“I’d begin here.” Gently, he hands it to me as the dish
Two years working on the appliances, he finally
walks into my kitchen, my appointment. “Teach
me triage,” I’m practically down on my knees.
“How deep are you into the applied sciences,” he
asks. I revel in being, explain all of the stereotypes,
foregoing my conclusion on contagion. He drops
his briefcase onto the dining room table, lifts a stack
of his best-selling compendia out of the fancy box
of black leather (a faux something-or-other),
spreads them all out like a fan, perfectly, each
title mostly obscured, revealed in elusive yet int
riguing smidgeons. “Well,” he says, picking up one,
“I’d begin here.” Gently, he hands it to me as the dish
