The second morning of the ten–minute clinic ran like a tiny machine, people shuffled in with laptops and contrition, we killed a zombie form, set one rule about dates that aren’t text fields, wrote a five–line note and posted it where adults live, Sandra walked by, read it, nodded without making eye contact which is her version of a hug, Ken rang Maya’s ridiculous brass bell once, politely, then confiscated it like a librarian with muscles
By eleven my brain wanted sunlight, my apartment wanted boxes moved, the hinge in its little black box wanted a door, I set the clinic sign to closed, grabbed my tote, and bribed Tari with dumplings to come help, she replied with fourteen knife emojis and two hearts, balance
The elevator opened on my floor and my hallway already looked like a sitcom, M
