I asked him to hold my mittens while I buttoned my coat up against the cold. He took them and held them up and looked at them.
Shit. Bridge, you brought Ruthie's mitts by mistake.
No I didn't, Jake, those are mine.
No, here, look.
He passed them to me and I put them on and held my hands up.
See?
I was rewarded with an expression I don't think I have ever seen before. A cross between incredulity and despondency. Just when I think I'm so tough something dumb like a little pair of mittens reminds him that I am not.
No worries, all is alright. I might have narrowly missed what Claus lovingly calls a massive depressive episode. I think the old-fashioned term is nervous breakdown. Yes, I'm so fucking tough.
By the wool of my mittens perhaps.
Back tomorrow with actual words. Thank you for the kind emails.
