September 3, in traffic, your cell phone.

cross-legged, i faced her.
the clock was too loud for the office.
we could very well have fallen into a remarkably quiet room 
from a scene in a very bad film.
or, i thought, it was placed there methodically;
it added a certain air of drama that i'm sure she got off on.

the room was filled with a myriad of different stacks of paper.
i said "you have a lot of piles" and immediately regretted it.
"piles make more piles and then you just have more piles am i right?"
she said really fast, her pen moving like an insect.
 i watched the ink dry. i said yes, you're right, yes. 
what else could i say?

"I want to make SURE you understand that this question is specifically asking if you ever feel these things when you are NOT yourself."
the room may or may not have been on fire.
"how do i know when i am not myself and when i am?"
i responded, hands in my lap. ("how-am-i-not-myself?")
she said, "when you are not yourself" 
& looked at me, eyes half open like an irritated parent.
i blinked and sighed, she waited.
i had nothing.

my leg was shaking.
she said, "you're a hummingbird."
i said "pretty." and then we sat there,
me the hummingbird and her, pen in hand, all those piles.
the clock still tap dancing,  the seconds slapping against the air
its minute hands on me, ticking.
i thought of people clapping but slowly, which was disturbing.

there was a painting on the wall of a balcony overlooking a beach.
i supposed it was there to make me feel calm.
she watched me and i watched her back.
i tried to imagine being there on that white wooden deck.
the air would be warm and a lot like a hug, probably.
i could only think of you.

1 comment:

rollerfink said...

You're a hummingbird.