I am sitting in Terminal B with these massive noise-canceling headphones on and there isn't a damn thing playing through them. Not a song. Not a podcast. Nothing. I just want every single person in this godforsaken airport to think I'm occupied so they don't open their mouths. If one more person asks me for a favor or a "quick minute" of my time, I might actually lose it. I spent three days at this corporate retreat being the "mom" of the office, making sure the kids in marketing didn't drink too much and the CEO didn't say anything that would get us sued. Sixty-seven years old and I'm still the one holding the clipboards. I’m the one who knows where the extra lanyards are and who is allergic to shellfish. I’m the one who stays sober to make sure everyone else gets to their rooms. My life is a series of lists I make for people who are too lazy or too "important" to remember their own damn birthdays. I’ve been an office manager for forty years and a wife for forty-five, and I honestly can’t tell the difference anymore. It’s all just management. It’s all just making sure the wheels don’t fall off while everyone else stares out the window. My husband, Arthur, he’s back home probably wondering where his blue sweater is or why the mail hasn't been brought in. He’s been "fading" for three years now—that’s the polite word the doctors use—and I’m the one who has to remember for both of us. Every pill, every appointment, every single meal. I don't get to fade. I don't get to forget a damn thing. People look at me and see this nice, reliable older woman. They see a grandmotherly type who probably knits and bakes pies. I don't knit. I simmer.