Summerlin/Boca Park: Room for rent

I waited on hold for 45 minutes. I rearranged the spice cabinet, emptied the dishwasher, unpacked my things, arranged a new desk area, contemplated putting my phone on speaker and down on the counter to wash the dishes, I thought about hanging up, but hesitated as the recorded voice repeated "your call will be processed in the order it was received, please don't hang up and call back, this will only further your wait." 

He came home between tours, a smudge of dirt on his cheek, flustered. We had a conversation while the phone stayed pressed to my ear, he came over and kissed me hello, I stood at the end of the counter watching him, unclear why he was home in the middle of the day. He inhaled deeply and left and came back. He forgot his bike, I waited on hold.

It didn't feel like 45 minutes but I became impatient. I dared myself to hang up and when I did I felt bad but better because I could choose not to wait because I'm not yet one of those women who has to, in panic, in remorse, in desperation for the next available customer service representative at the state welfare office just to keep the lights on.

I wonder if he was surprised, like me, when the automated message service called us poor.