I was at work this morning and I had to mark the ends of some of the trays we use to hold the mail. I went to my desk, where my sorting rack is, and scooped up the big black, square-tipped permanent ink marker I use to mark hew tape labels I put on my hold bins. I went back across the floor to the trays I was working with and did my marking.
Marking done, I strolled back across the floor to put the marker away. As I reached out with my left hand to open the drawer in my desk, I noticed a dark black spot on the tip of my index finger. I held up my hand to look at it.
There was a nice thick black oval on the tip of my finger, a perfect oval except for the very tip of my finger, right by the nail. Right there next to the nail, it was smudged.
What the ... oh no!
I thought back to my walk across the floor. Hadn't my face been itchy? It was so hard to remember, I mean, you itch, you scratch, it's reflexive. I couldn't specifically recall breathing as I crossed the floor either, but I was pretty dang sure I had done it! Had I scratched my face as well? Try as I might, I couldn't remember.
One of my co-workers, ME was walking by.
"Hey," I said. "Look here for me, would you?"
I pointed to the side of my face, and he peered closely at me as I explained.
"I have this ink on my fingertip, and I think I might have scratched my face. I don't want to walk around looking like an idiot for the rest of the day."
ME smiled and shook his head.
"Nope. You're good."
"Whew! Thanks, I mean look," I held up the marker so he could see the words imprinted on the side.
"This wouldn't have washed off, I'd have walked around looking like an idiot for a week!"
He just smiled and shook his head again as he walked away.
I finished sorting my mail, and pulled it all down, getting it ready for delivery. I loaded it into a hamper, and wheeled it out of the building and down the ramp to the parking lot so I could get it in my truck. I walked over to my mail truck and started to open the driver's side door, but I stopped dead, key extended.
The day was overcast, and the gray sky was reflected in the big square window built into the side door of my truck, turning it into a slightly foggy but otherwise perfect mirror. There, reflected in the mirror of my window, was a letter carrier dressed and ready for the road. He had his arm outstretched, key pinched between his fingers and aimed at the door lock.
And he had a nice black line running up the side of his face.
Yup. That's my buddy when he's bored...
Talk to you later.
I'm going to go wash my face.