Walking With a Towel

Veronica does not have a stressful job. She decides where flowers go for a new home, and in what quantity. As a matter of fact she loves her job; the problem is that there are people at her job that are stressful. This means that upon arriving at home she is not the nice and pretty sedated Veronica that we all know and love, she is closer to a drunken monkey running around with a knife cutting things that make eye contact with her.

Considering that I kind of like the way that she cooks dinner, and honestly enjoy spending time with her for some unknown reason, I try to avoid the “tell her there is a fairy/squirrel in another room and lock her in,” method of dealing with things I have decided that the best thing to do would be to force her to go outside and take a walk—and since she can’t be trusted near traffic I have to go with her. This serves several purposes: the first and most practical of which is that if she does decide to stab someone/something there is way more stuff that aren’t me/my things outside. The second, and more “socially acceptable”, is that it allows her to blow off some steam both by talking to me and doing something that gets her mind off of stupid people.

You know that feeling that occurs when you know someone was right about something that you desperately wanted them to be terribly wrong about? My mom once said that Veronica and I share something similar to twin speak, a language that we alone have for some reason come up with by spending entirely too much time together, and I am starting to believe that is the best way to describe the relationship that we have. During a walk the other day she randomly would spout out a number, always higher than the last one but not always in a row. For some reason I knew that she was counting people.

Sadly my first statement about it was that I thought she had double counted a couple, instead of questioning why she was doing it.

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