When Alice felt like she needed a little personal time, she would go to her secret jar on her bookcase, stuck behind Malcolm Gladwell’s “Outliers”.
This was her therapy; there were 40 loonies in the jar, but no matter how precisely she counted, the end result was always the same. “Rabbit Dollars’.
The sum of her counting was always rabbits, because Alice had a rare form of aphasia that affected her ability to relate to numbers. So, to her, any sum of money was always ‘Rabbit Dollars’.
To Alice, “a picture was worth a rabbit words.”
She always drove the speed limit of rabbit kilometres per hour.
She bought eggs by the rabbit, not the dozen.
If she needed to reconsider a plan of action, she always went back to square rabbit.
She had learned to cope with it over the years and always made sure to avoid any use of numbers in any communications with people, be it verbal or otherwise. And she’d made it work.
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And while her work as a Member of Parliament was very fulfilling, she came one day to realize her social life was zilch, nil, nada, zero… or “rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit’, she decided she needed to live a little.
So, after hitting ‘Rabbit of Fish’ and trading a few messages with a nice, bright guy, she decided it was time to go on a date. She got “dressed to the rabbits” and met her date at Les Trois Freres, or as she called it ‘That Rabbit Place’, as speaking French also made her hair fall out.
Things went well. He was handsome, charming and funny. He was an hour late looking for ‘That Rabbit Place’, which she realized was her fault. He had even voted for her party in the last election. She was on “Cloud rabbit”.
“So,” she asked. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an accountant,” he said.
She threw her wine in his face and walked out. No sense leading him on. This relationship was doomed, and as horny as she was, she wasn’t planning to do anything till the rabbit date.
