wearing silver turquoise rings

at least it wasn’t a bunch of abuse narratives, she says of the current batch of essays under review.
right, I affirm too quickly and shift my weight. Pull my arms up. Tight against my chest.
She continues, and her voice steadily loses all relation to inhabitable space. I nod slowly. Light a cigarette and drag hard. Seeking the hot gritty smoke against the back of my throat.

We’re standing outside a monolithic building of brick on a slab of concrete, and I long to be in my office with the door closed. I realize I’ve yet to find a safe place here. The heavy metal doors crash into themselves. I jump. Stare at the building with spite. Georgia red, I think, as I smile and pretend to be listening. Shift weight. Slowly pop my right hip joint out of its socket and lean. Pull my arms in closer. Across the stomach. The other reaching up to the neck.

I ride the bus home. Later. Head nodding with the shocks -- from sleep deprivation and the inability to ingest food. That’s what my story has become. I can see the word behind my eyelids. cliché.

what a fucking joke.