Fancy seeing you again.
She’s like a radio station clearly tuned in to me.
I hear her voice in passing, on my way to pick up crackers and juice from the store with the money I had left from the last cleansing, too weak to bother with my visibility. She’s a white-haired white woman in her late fifties, tanned face, reminding me of so many variations of her, in real life and TV. Her, an unspoken, unseen, yet present thing. A particular type of her; the curious sort of specificity that leads to her looking like everyone, situated safely behind everyone. In the grocery stores, the coffee shops, at the back of the bus. Watching me. Blending. Security through obscurity. It’s the form she’s taking, but it’s her eyes that lie. I can’t stop focusing on her, wrapped in my own bland garments. Doesn
