Compassion w/out emotion is the privilege of very few vocations in life.

They peered into the cryptic question + gazed on the round table of post cards trapped between glass + masonite. Someone belched. A wooden chair creaked.

The brave one gave it a meek try, "The answer can only be; Wonder."

 A complexion of 'eureka' + 'I wish I’d said that' scurried around the table till it hit the final player on his left side. He didn’t budge his poker face.

He remained stone for the rest to figure on whether he was seriously thinking, seriously numb, or just seriously miles away. They each gave up the read, breathed again, heads turning back toward private thought.

It was then he spoke out of turn, not knowing whose it was.

"It’s simply the Tenth Daughter. The stepchild that makes us think of something kind-of-like, sorta-to, or quite-near. Kind-of-like talking up sacred geometry. Speak that to a client and they'll eat that BS up real fast. Sorta-to like suffering through the present situation to have an enlightenment of it later.

And kind-of-like listening to a genius stutter."

The table commenced synchronized nodding and from up above it looked as though they were rehearsing for a Busby Berkeley - Esther Williams swimming moment.

-30-