On Friday, everything changed. I was answering the tech support line.
“This is Darrell.”
“Listen, Carol Kryzinski. That’s proof of my identity. You remember what she meant to you.”
It was my own voice on the headset.
“In exactly four minutes, Carol will walk into your office. It will be the first time you’ve seen her in twenty years, right?”
“She’s an evil witch. She’ll destroy our life, family, and career. Use the letter opener, two minutes.”
“You can’t date her, Darrell. Listen, she’s going—”
Click.
“If you’d like to place a call, please hang up and dial again.”
100 words. For the (final ::sniff cry:: Flashversary bash)
ParkInkSpot 