I sat whining in the back of the cafeteria when a large bellied woman placed a dark blue stress ball on the table in front of me. My neck cracked when I looked up and saw her disagreeable face. She stood over me like a boss, eyes wide open, the right side of her mouth higher than the left.
The ball felt slippery in my hand. I squeezed it a couple times. I rolled it across the table but it fell to the floor. Fun enough, but I was over it.
“Pick it up,” she whispered. “You both deserve better than that.”
I thought she had walked away.
“Sssshhhh,” I said, finger to lips, suddenly convinced she and I were wonderful friends, perhaps even coiled tongue lovers of romance seduced by a misfortune or war.
She placed the ball on the table again, and with her index finger pushed it into my chest, breath tickling the back of my neck, perfume smelling of old newspaper and something unrecognizably sexy. Like an abstract painting viewed from far away.
“Pick it up and squeeze it,” she whispered. “And don’t let me see you set it down.” I reached for the ball, but it slipped from her finger and rolled underneath an empty chair to the right of me. I hesitated, but then I got up and grabbed the ball squeezing it as tight as my fingers would allow.
She was gone, perfume and all. I licked the ball, just to make sure.
For the remainder of the day I felt much improved, less stressed, easier to get along with, clear headed. That night, I slept so well, dreaming of newspapers, paintings, and dark blue wars felt like pillow exercises.
The next day I handed the ball to Julia, my smart-ass do-nothing co-worker. I told her it just might help. I told her if she didn’t squeeze it, she’d be sorry. I told her if she wanted to, she could give it away tomorrow.
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