friday; OR history isn’t supposed to repeat itself

There’s a little piece of stow-away masking tape on my right index finger.  I’m folding t-shirts and wrapping them with tape.  Finishing them off with the swipe of a black sharpe: girl S, men L, girl XL.  I’m just grateful to have something to do with my hands while I’m having to give answers to questions I don’t know how to answer.  He’s washing his car and glueing down all the loose bits.  I wonder at the concept of honesty vs. kindness and whether what I’m saying even falls into one of the two categories.  The shred of tape on my right index finger is useless and annoying, but I haven’t stopped to pick it off and I can’t figure out why.  It’s hanging on for dear life despite the cheap glue pasted to one side.  I guess it’s simply one of those things you one day recognize after a long stint.  Once it comes to your attention you wonder why you’ve held onto for so long.

I peeled the tape off with my left hand and let it fall to the pavement (stamping on it for good measure).