New Year by Bonnie Dee Page B

remember thinking she was really pretty. Now tear tracks were blazing mascara trails down her cheeks.
    “You okay?” I asked.
    “Yes, fine. Thank you.” She rubbed her eyes, grabbed the banister, and rose.
    I could almost see her moment of weakness being covered like someone protecting broken windows with plywood. She picked up her purse and briefcase and started to walk past me.
    Fine. I needed to get back to work anyway. But as she passed, her perfume tickled my nose, and I suddenly wanted her to stick around a little longer. Cleaning an empty office building is boring and lonely. Nothing but hours of me, the floor buffer, and the tunes on my MP3 player.
    “Try counting sheep,” I blurted.
    She stopped and turned, blonde-streaked brown hair flipping over one shoulder. “Pardon me?”
    “It helps…when you’re having a hard day.”
    I knew she thought I was simpleminded by the way her eyes went all soft and pitying. “I think that’s for falling asleep.”
    “It works for other things too. It’s a technique. Like a—what do you call it—mantra. Helps you calm down…when you’re anxious and…focuses your thoughts.”
    I could parrot therapist-speak, and I definitely wanted this chick to know I wasn’t dumb.
    Her eyes went wide, and she smiled. “Is that so? Maybe I could use a mantra. Tell me more.”
    I felt suddenly nervous. The way my life was at the time, I could go days hardly talking to anybody, and I’d sort of lost the knack.
    “When people are emotional, their minds are all over the place. Counting something helps slow your heart rate and breathing. It’s like meditation.”
    At least, that’s what I meant to say. The way it came out was less concise, with a lot of pauses while I searched for the right word. She waited patiently for me to finish formulating my thoughts, which was cool. A lot of people want to finish my thoughts for me, and nothing’s more apt to make me clam up.
    “Counting sheep, eh? Well, hell, I can get rid of my Xanax prescription and save a bundle.” She smiled.
    I tried to think of something else to say so she wouldn’t walk away. “Another good technique is to draw the thing that’s upsetting you. Your boss, maybe,” I guessed. “And work through your shit that way.”
    She shifted her purse strap to the other shoulder and set down the briefcase like maybe she was going to stay awhile. “You taking psych classes? It sounds like you’re gearing up for a career as a therapist.”
    “No. I had to drop out of college.” I tapped my head. “Brain injury.”
    She nodded. “I’m Anna, by the way.”
    “Jason.” I wondered if I should offer my hand to shake. But Anna hadn’t held out hers, so I didn’t either.
    “Do you like your job here?”
    I glanced at the abandoned buffer, then back at her. “Cleaning is my life.”
    Her laughter rang down the empty corridor. “Point taken.”
    “I wasn’t being”—I searched my scrambled brain before coming up with the right word—“ironic. Unfortunately.”
    “You’re funny,” she said.
    “Funny looking or funny hah-hah?”
    Anna’s gaze swept over me from head to toe, leaving me heated. “Not at all funny looking.”
    It was a pretty kind compliment. I can see in the mirror every day that the scar on my face is still red. Supposedly it’ll fade over time, but I’ll never be my former handsome self. I could feel Anna wanting to ask about the scar, but she didn’t. People are too polite. Except for little kids, who’ll say anything that crosses their minds. I appreciate that honesty.
    “So, is it your boss who made you cry?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “I did it to myself. Thought I was prepared for court, but I wasn’t, and I made a fool of myself.”
    “You a paralegal?” I asked, because she looked too young to do anything else in a law office.
    “I’m a lawyer.” She gave a little snort. “I worked hard to be able to say that, so why do I have the feeling I drove down a road a long