curse thank sorry thank

Being paranoid means every light, every word. Being alone is falling continuously; free weight dropping in mind. The phone isn’t even a lifeline, the pill in the back of the medicine cabinet that the holding of sooths. The phone is an instrument and it is only as good as the hand holding it. Pulling over again on the highway, the answer seems more distant than ever despite the voice coming from miles rather than cross continent. He tells me the key is in the glove box, access as a pledge.

Standing in the doorway again, because everything that is good and attractive happens in a frame with bits of hardware and a ledge to trip over. Or in the late evening and very early morning, those cold hours that fit perfectly around the planner schedule as well as the real progress. Or, of course, on bridges- the less water the better for the thin skinned carrying only the smallest amount of self-possession.

Waiting in line the agitations begins. Feet in shoes ill suited to the airport, slightly higher than advisable or prudent, the kind that say ‘I need help’ and leave the rest to say what kind would be most appropriate. Begin to two-step, side to side movement that doesn’t go anywhere. Unbalanced spinning that doesn’t stop on its own, side to side over the carpet.

There is the memory of a city apartment, space taken almost entirely by the bed. Two men side by side on their backs, a gracefully designed distance between them and neither moving. Even the hands that are spread down besides them, open, are resting easily and still. In memory the bed is shaking a little. A third man sits down in the chair besides them and she hears the words, “Do you need the attendant? Can I get one for you?”

The plane aisle is empty now with the full row of lights running down the way. One hand drops firmly on the rest. The man in the next seat is moving his book rather than reading it, almost fanning the air. He's looking with surprise or dismay but holding that book open as though to say he’s not involved in this, he’s distanced by the pages that he resists putting down.

In memory, there is a park full of roses with a bridge and a young man coming down the hill on a bike. The bike veers off the bridge (wooden and for walking) directly into the pond (without ducks or a shore other than a steep slick ledge).

His face comes up out of the water like he’s been unplugged from the liquid and she says it’s going to kill me if I go back there. That place is going to kill me.

There is a woman’s face asking if everything is alright, the man having gotten up and left. If we need to stop this plane you need to tell me right now. If we are turning around we need to know right now.