Just Another Trashy Affair
I love my trash man. It’s not really a physical thing. I couldn’t tell you the color of his eyes, or if his hair (golden or otherwise), rakes across his forehead in an unruly mane. I don’t know if his muscles ripple, or if he has a cute butt, so you can’t call me shallow. It’s not really a spiritual connection either. I don’t know his philosophy of life, or what kind of music and theater he likes. I don’t know if he likes kids or dogs or cats. I can’t tell you if he’s witty or dull, or even if he’s a good listener. It doesn’t matter. I love him, anyway. Every week, without fail, he fills my heart with joy and satisfaction when he comes by in his big, manly truck and hauls away my garbage. He doesn’t care how smelly it is. He doesn’t judge me for putting out one bag or six. I never hear him complain or criticize, yet right on schedule, like clockwork, he comes and takes the nastiest, yuckiest, least desirable of all I have to offer, tosses it handily into