Object of Focus

Anne checked her watched and stifled a growl of frustration. She paced around the kitchen one more time before making her decision and walking up to the bathroom door and hammering on it with one fist.

“Come on, Farley!” she hollered through the door. “You have been in there twenty minutes already.”

“Bathroom time is sacred time,” Farley replied, calmly. “Now, shhh, you’ll scare it away.”

“Not that sacred,” Anne muttered to herself, and then louder so Farley could hear her: “What are you even doing in there?”

“Meditating,” was the prompt response.

Anne fisted her hands in her hair and screamed silently. After a few deep breaths and another circuit of the kitchen, Anne approached the bathroom again.

“Can’t you meditate in your bedroom?” Anne said, trying to keep her voice level.

“No, please, shh! I need silence for this!”

“What are you even meditating about?” Anne knew she sounded strangled. Any second now her nails were going to break through the skin of her palms.

“If you must know, my object of focus is an empty colon!” Farley shouted. “I haven’t pooped in ten days! There was something in the cheese on the nachos I got at that dive bar. Now, PLEASE, let me focus.”

“Can’t you take a break or something?” Anne pleaded. “I have to get ready for work.”

“No.” Farley was petulant.

“Why not?! If nothing is moving, a few more minutes won’t hurt.”

“Because constipated people don’t give a crap.”

“I hate you.”

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