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| “Yes.
Well, I’m an investment banker. I work on Wall Street. It’s
bad to cry when you are a banker. It shows you’re a real
person – one who contains weaknesses within. I find it to
be very inefficient. It dampens my productivity, not to mention
hurting my image, and business confidence.” He fixes his
square glasses and then restores his hands to his lap. “Your colleagues don’t cry?” the woman asks. Her voice rattles now, as she slowly returns to her sulking self. “Maybe they do, but not in public. It’s not that I cry in meetings and conferences either. I cry alone, at home or sometimes in a movie theater. I have ten-hour crying sessions that last the whole night. Sometimes I have to call in sick because I just can’t stop crying. People look at me at work and they can tell that I’ve cried, or that I’m the type that cries. I guess you can’t blame them for using it against me. I mean, would you want someone who is so weak to handle your company’s public offering?” Everyone is silent. It seems like a rhetorical question, but Veronica doesn’t really understand it. All she can think is that she would never trust someone who doesn’t cry. That’s why she can’t trust herself. But she is interested in finding out more about this banker’s crying. She loved hearing crying stories. Silence sits thick in the room. Veronica doesn’t want the conversation to end. “But why do you cry?” she asks. The banker brings his fingers to his closely-shaven chin. “Well, I’m not really sure. But I think I have come up with a few theories.” He speeds up his chin rubbing as he searches for words. “Steven Myers.” The receptionist announced. “Doctor Kcops is ready to see you.” The banker stands up and apologizes for ending the conversation so abruptly. He shakes Veronica’s hand very firmly and hands her a business card from his pocket. He repeats this ritual with the woman to Veronica’s right, and says, “It |
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