mei

sitting in the bar bathroom, i can hear myself think again. i have closed and locked the stall door with the flimsy little bolt, which provides a strange sense of security. of the many things people will violate, the bathroom sanctum is near the bottom. the music is muffled; i can no longer hear the singer's words. his tenor voice is clear, though, shaking the space in my throat where a sigh collects. i don't want to go back into the bar, crowded and busy, forcing my senses to prickle, blotting introspection. i press the heels of my hands into my eyesockets, reveling in the momentary headache. the eyes and hands, they are mine, even if the bar will temporarily commandeer my voice. a couple of girls come in, making the partnered bathroom trek favored by so many bargoing females. i listen to what he was wearing and what she did last week. all gossip sounds the same. i act exactly like this in all conversations - silent and listening. the only difference here is that i'm protected by a wall. i stand, and as the alcohol in my blood swirls, i sway slightly on my platform shoes. they are black suede for confidence, like roses red for love.

a breeze ripples, momentarily chilling. it feels like the soft overworn t-shirt worn by someone attractive, inadvertently brushing me, leaving a trail of bright electric stars down my arm. i shiver, and smile.

i keep applying for jobs, realizing more and more that i'm not going to find something that won't bore and annoy me. i think that maybe i'll work at the mall - at least in retail i'm directly responsible for very little. i don't understand why salons refuse to get back in touch with me - the one type of work in which i actually have experience, for some reason closed to me lately.

our yard is slowly dying. if it wasn't so prickly already, i would buy a hose and sprinkler, so i could lay in the sun under drops of water. sun and rain at the same time. but the grass is sharp, and that would be a waste - so i'll let it die. that way it doesn't need to be cut, anyway.

it seems like there is something breaking in my peripheral vision, but as soon as i turn my head, it's whole again. mirrors hang by spider silk behind me, but if i face them they are mounted firmly with glue and nails, and i look back at myself, quizzically. "nothing to see here," the mirror tells me, enthusiastically enigmatic. there is another shoe, waiting to fall. i hope it's not made of glass.