Counting to Thirty

I’m scrambling to get everything together in the morning. In my desk, I know I have one cymbalta left and the refill isn’t until next week. Someone messed up and I still haven’t figured out who yet. I’m blaming the pharmacy because I took it correctly and I’m assuming my doctor is smart enough not to make this kind of mistake.

“I just don’t understand,” my mom sighs.

“It’s easy,” I sneer, “someone doesn’t know how to count to thirty,” I set my bag down on the kitchen chair and sit down in another. My cat comes running over to me and jumps up into my lap, waiting to be pet, “good morning love,” I run my hands through her fur and she begins purring. I look back up at my mom, “I don’t know how hard it is to count to 30. I don’t know how they got that job and do not know how to count to thirty,” I run my hands over my cat’s fur. She meows, chiming in to the conversation. “Do you know how to count to thirty Norah?” I ask her, in my baby voice I reserve for her but the comment is still ever so condescending. “I bet you can count to thirty,” I scratch behind her ears and she purrs louder, meowing in reply. “You would be the cutest little pharmacy assistant,” I kiss her head and she nuzzles me under my chin.

I look up and see my mom glaring at me from across the room. She’s not happy with the situation and doesn’t appreciate my humor in the whole situation. I continue to pet the cat.


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