numbers

The odds are against us. Trouble is always waiting somewhere. You can linger by the water cooler, you can lounge around the pool. The numbers are always out there, never quite adding up, always in staggering amounts. Probability is the only prophecy, and the world works embracing devastating waste. Start counting. Where ever you stop, that number is the wrong one. Even the right one is wrong. The countdown began already, and it is over still.

So you wade into chaos. This is the job. This is the price of getting paid. Meet a gaze that is tainted with tailings of evil. All the stories that bled together are suddenly set apart. All the grievous failures seem a little better, just from this sickness breathing down your neck. You see the weakness, you see the flaws. You see the clumsy mistakes, and you feel some portion of grace. Looking into those eyes, you can see another flavor of your own end. A little over-time, a pin to mark the tragedy yet to come.

I can count them with my shoes on. The ones I can trust, the ones with my back when my hands are full. And I know them when I see them. The ones with a gift, the ones with spine. I can feel my portion dwindle as they walk in the door. But that isn't the job, that isn't the day. I hold the line, I mitigate disaster. The odds are phenomenal, and I am always on their bad side. The odds are against me, as they are against us all. The numbers will keep counting long after my luck plays out.