Wernicke's Area

littleworries:

I’ve been temping at this place that takes my fingers and slip-slices them open for no good reason but it does it anyway.

There’s an old man that temps there too.  He is about 70.  His wife died, so he works because being at home on his own is a difficult thing.
He repeats himself an awful lot, and makes really strange mistakes between his brain and his noises.  He calls me boy, largely because my name is constantly escaping him, and he frowns at my elusive ways until he falls upon the back up.  Then he smiles his drunky smile and talks about his bad bad heartpart.

These are my favorite words you’ve written.