Deus ex Machina
I met the woman who changed my life at a library. I suppose that makes me sounds like a total dork, but I’m really not. My wife is reading over my shoulder, laughing.
Alright, I concede. I am a bit of a dork. I graduated from Kimball College in the spring of 1998, summa cum laude. I majored in science while I was there, even though the school was primarily known for its arts department. I studied for my master’s at a slew of different places before finally giving up. None of them quite suited me. A huge pharmaceutical company got a hold of one of my papers, though. They—you—made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. And, well, that’s basically it. I’ve been here ever since. But all that’s about to change.
You see, sir, this is my letter of resignation. I am writing to you because I no longer wish to waste my life away at something that doesn’t matter all that much, something that shouldn’t even be done at all. If I were working on cloning organs for diseased patients or something like that, maybe this would all be different. But what we’re working on is pointless, and I desire more in life than pointless pursuits.
The woman I met in the library wasn’t my wife. I met my wife at Kimball, back in the day, at brunch one Sunday morning, arguing over whether the bacon was good or not. She likes hers soggy; I like mine crisp. No, the woman that I met in the library, the one that changed my life, was someone else, someone totally different, a nice old lady with quite a story to tell.
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