Book of Qualities

Tolerance

 Tolerance lives in a small suburban house, with a green grass lawn and a white picket fence. In a quiet town near a large city, he commutes to work every day, taking the train to his big city job. Every day while he waits for his train, in the cracked tunnel, he passes by a homeless man who he has seen consistently since he has taken the green line. The homeless man is old and bearded, sits with a tattered and stained blanket, blue gray in color and holds up an ancient rusted coffee can to whoever walks by, shaking it a little with a pleading shamed look in his eyes. And every day, Tolerance drops in the can the remains of his train fare, and gives a little nod to the man. On the train Tolerance sees many different people, some elderly, some youthful. Tolerance smiles to them all, little nods and then sits on a worn grayed train seat. Tolerance doesn't love his job, but he does it all the same. He works for a large nameless company, one of the many tall buildings in the large city, glass windows reach to the sky seemingly endless heights, where elevators go up, up, and away. Reaching his destination in a small cubicle, Tolerance can't remember how many years he has been with this company. He's never become tired of the cubicle, surrounded by so many identical shades of beige. He doesn't hate his job, faceless and meaningless as it is, long hours worked on a desk covered in sheets of paper, typing and writing, words blending together before his weary eyes. No, he doesn't hate his job, but he doesn't love it either. There are places he'd rather be, but he works hard all the same.

At the end of the day, Tolerance makes his way home to his wife, who tells him how their oldest child called today, everything's going alright with her, the baby is doing well. Tolerance smiles in acknowledgment and goes to sit down at the kitchen table. His wife, Patience, lays down a steaming mug of tea on the wood grain patterns, forgetting about the stack of crotchet coasters placed neatly in the middle of the rounded table. She knows it's been a long day. A sense of warmth envelopes Tolerance in his little home, framed pictures of children and grandchildren on the walls and cute magnets holding a coffee stained grocery list to the fridge. A breeze blows through the room through the frilly curtains, and Tolerance smiles contentedly.