Still, the day had an air of menace. A broken whiskey bottle by the log, the brown tip of a snake's tail disappearing between two rocks on the hill at my back, the rabbit the dog nearly caught, the rabies I knew was in the county, the bees who kept unaccountably fumbling at my forehead with their furred feet.
Dillard has a bad feeling, as if some wall of water is about to roll over her. She's talking about rains and floods, uprooted trees and washed-out bridges. While I don't think she's a superstitious person, Dillard is looking around her, seeing all these signs of impending disaster. Broken bottles. Snakes. Rumors of rabid forest creatures.
I have had a trying day. Eight hours of calling patients. Over a hundred conversations. My voice is tired, my brain is tired, and my tolerance is tired. When I left work, I found myself disliking people. A lot. Not because of the people I spoke to. Because of the number of people I spoke to.
When I feel like this, everybody irritates me. Right now, my sister is irritating the shit out of me because she's talking so loud. Hell's Kitchen is on the TV, and Gordon Ramsay's voice is making my skin crawl. I want to slap people who are chewing or swallowing too loudly. (In case you're wondering, I do suffer from misphonia, where certain noises trigger irrational anger responses.)
So, there is an air of menace about me this evening. Invisible bees buzzing around my head. I have to force myself not to speak, because, if I open my mouth, I will probably yell, scream, or swear for no good reason. I would look like a crazy person, which I might be.
I think that Bob Dylan suffers from misphonia, as well. That's why he hasn't said anything about his Nobel Prize. Either that or he just doesn't give a flying fig, which, again, irritates the shit out of me.
Maybe Saint Marty should just go to bed.