the parking garage architect

I stood awkwardly in the kitchen with Kristin. She’s the new employer. She says she is type A, an engineer and that she struggles to handle her son's moods and tantrums. An overshare. Maybe I should too. Match her output with calculated equal force. Any instance of me oversharing would surely be followed by taut silence and being ushered out of the door.
“That's what my mom used to say before i was diagnosed with bipolar depression”....no that wouldn't be appropriate.
“Oh yeah i'm totally a type A kind of person too”...no, no one would bat an eyelash at such a meager comment. Not enough of an overshare.
“I hear ketamine is good for kids like that.” hard no. My dry humor barley carries out with people who know and love me. So I settle with a lacking response, so forgettable it can’t even be reproduced here.
I am the new subordinate, so there are things not to be divulged. Truths about me…altered because they have to be. I need to seem a certain (proper and stable) way, but even so, she's nice. Kristen tells me her husband is an architect and designs parking units - plots, garages, that sort of thing.
“He loves it,” she says with a knowing and weary laugh.
I think it's sweet, in that sad sort of way- to love something so mundane. To have a careful and loving affection for the absolutely ordinary is rare. Despite this, I said nothing. I remind myself I don't need to fill all linguistic spaces, and that I should be gentle with myself in times of silence and when the formulation of words fails to come to fruition. Sometimes they can be unbearably crushing, silences tend to send my head into a pressurized vault of my own making. But in a noble bid to avoid damning myself into depths of conversational hell, I tried to sit with silence.
I want Kristin to like me. Not just because she pays big but because I like being liked and I like her. It's something about being seen in the light I wish to emit. It's not selfishness i don't think, but a need for white knuckled control in any given situation. I tell myself in foolish morning hours of my ability to summon unfathomable powers, that before the day starts my eyes have secret powers and I am capable of things unseen to me now. Her son slashed through our staggered conversation with that seering pitch accessible only to six year olds. She tended to his latest spastic outburst, and I wished I had told her my sweet thoughts about her sweet husband.
These thoughts, recollections and pangs of diluted chemical releases, wind around my mind like a rolodex on this cool evening of oscillating and breathy gusts of west wind. wafting in and out of my bedroom window, bulging the curtains softly, then inhaling them back towards the ripped window screen. I like to indulge like this at night. Sift through my day, revise and and make sense of every tangled moment. It's a luxury to live like this, to be the blank-faced girl, reflecting in the window.
 A helicopter hums in the west, now passed the art museum, and battering through the young autumn air towards center city. Constant whirs swarm and eddie in the streets below my golden, second-floor window. Cars en route in the street beneath, like rain making its way down the curves of my face. Delineating my forehead, briefly tracing the slope of my nose before veering off to be stopped by the ridge of my top lip and dismembered into amorphous pieces. I lose the light on my baby joint. It's okay because I'm done now anyways.