Waiting to Collide

The situation in the vet tech office was pretty dire.  The MySpace sharing of Saturday binge pics, the terrible TV they watched at lunch, the Neanderthal grunts coming from behind me…  Worst?  The persisting air duster.  Tst tssst tst-tst-tst-tst tssssssssssst.

I have a touch of PTSD.

I traded up when I moved to the Medford campus.  I got Wayne.

Wayne’s an interesting fellow.  I can’t decide if he’s awesome, frightening, or horribly depressing.  My inclination is that he’s a lonely, old fellow with a serious touch of OCD exacerbated by working alone for the better part of 13 years.

He has two giger counters
and a piece of paper in his wallet detailing what the readings mean.

He is waiting to buy new glasses until his prescription stops changing
so he sometimes wears two pairs of glasses.

He’s done moderate research on gemology and jewelery making,
owns a selection of loose, precious stones
and asked me my ring size.

He would survive the zombie apocalypse
because he owns a variety of knives
that he has offered me one of.

He bought a cell phone
and only receives calls from work
but has the numbers of the FBI, CIA, Secret Service, and Poison Control Center in it.

Late fifties and possibly paranoid.  Wears makeup.  May have a crush on me.

Still better than Derek.