This to that.

"How's it going?"
Were the first words out of his mouth.
Instantly, my mind exploded with
"What is the incessant IT you keep referring to?!"

It,
Like a dog.
Like an object.
Like and infant before it's named.

Can you imagine two people running around their suburban home,
two years later,
still happily married,
and still calling that infant IT.
"Dear, have you seen IT? It's time for him to get ready for a party."
"Oh yes, it's a costume party, right? What's IT going as?"
"A clown."

But I only mention the incessance of IT,
because the day before,
he'd asked me a similar question.
"How's it coming along?"

Has my mind lost pieces I need to collect?
Any normal person would come to the conclusion
he was referring to our unfinished science project.
But not me. No.
My mind went to that poor child.

So, I'm stuck.
"How's it going?"
How's IT..going.

"I'm sure IT's fine."
Is my final reply.
Kill me.
I'd like to die.

Right about now.
Someone show some kindness.

I scramble for words.
My mouth open wide,
wanting to spout
and rant
and inquire
about his
"It" factor.

"Sorry," I say,
"I'm a little out of sorts today."
"That's okay." A smile.

I cringe inside.
Don't even get me started on THAT.