Every Friday is singing day at work.
In the morning, Lynn and Jessica and lately a few others have wandered in, excitedly reminding me that IT'S FRIDAY! and they clap and cheer when I break into precisely the same bars of "La Vie En Rose" as every other week.
Lynn giggles and crows, Sharon hurls affectionate insults, Jessica giggles.
This afternoon, further proof that the sudden sunshine explosion has affected barins:
Edwin dropped by for his usual torture session, and when I broke out in Vaccaj (as loudly and raucously as I could) he just paused for a while and then said:
"What a pretty voice."
After all these months, going on years soon -- it still took me a few moments to realize:
that was me he was talking about.
Me.
And that tiny part of me that still remembers being mousey and shy and awkward and part of the scenery and no good at anything, just raised one tired eyelid and blinked a few times before returning to the depths of my heart.
I, despite the great armor of arrogance that has nearly melded with my skin --
and taking these few seconds to just marvel.
Me. I'd never imagined nor expected a simple sentence like that to have me as its subject.