"All those petty little things in life"
"are killing me."
I sat listening, and turned slightly to the left,
I bit my lip, and blinked.
"Without those petty things, life would be…
She winked as a small bug
presumably a fruit-fly,
impacted her eye,
and then she looked at me,
"those little things are so ugly!
I want big details;
I'll cast the rest aside!"
She moved her index finger so it covered a
discoloration on the wooden table in front of her,
"This is why this will not work.
You cannot notice anything but those petty things;
you are sick of them."
I crossed my left leg over my right and
straightened out a wrinkle in my pants.
she said, clearly upset,
"You are nothing but a mess
of petty details!
You straighten wrinkles,
and adjust the paper in your printer.
You pull loose threads from your linens,
you leave your bed undone, and your
pants un-ironed! Your printer out of ink!"
She clenched her jaw strongly;
a vein was embossed slightly from her forehead.
"So it is about me.
What you say is true,
but that matters only as much as you make it.
I love. Is love so petty as a wrinkle, or a misaligned page in a printer?
Is it so petty as a loose thread?
You have lost yourself in your petty details!
Does that not make you petty?
It does. You are."
Her face had grown red; and her teeth shined in comparison.
She still clenched them.
Her lip twitched, and she stood up.
And walked, far too quickly, to the door.
She ran outside.
I stayed seated for a few minutes,
and got up, running outside.
She was killing ants in the road;
petty little ants, she thought.
she was dashed to the ground
like the ants had done moments before,
that she was only a petty detail.