It was a hard morning. At 2PM I stand up for myself. The editorial changes to the online program can wait; give me 15 minutes to grab something to eat, get some air.
Food and air. I deserve to eat and to breathe.
Rather than run down to the cafeteria on the mezzanine level (by which I mean 'take the elevator,' as doors to stairwells set off building-wide alarms, and one is relegated to elevator-taking in matters of having to ascend or descend even one level, though being on the 32nd floor, and having no business with businesses on other levels apart from the food service on the mezzanine, I suppose the point is moot), I determined to run round the corner to Basha, where the tabbouleh has an exquisite tang and the pita is fresh.
"I'm smiling now," as he paper-bagged my order and I prepared to pay.
"What you do?"
I cock my head.
"For job. What you do for job?"
I tell him.
"No good. You leave your job. You teach course for the lady how to smile all day."