Hiding

I look out the window. The sun is shining, the leaves are dancing a slow waltz and I hear traffic close by.

There is a tiny spot of grime under my left thumbnail. I meticulously remove it with the long prong on the pen lid.

The AC kicks on and my feet turn to ice. My arms get pimples and I think about getting my sweater.

The AC turns off and slowly the small of my lower back gets warm and clammy. I feel a tiny bead of sweat fill behind my ear, under the arm of my glasses. It doesn’t fall.

I look at the screen and wish the words would come. Where are my words, I think, when my inside feels so full and empty.

Once there were so many words I couldn’t stop them from spilling out through closed lips and gloved fingertips. The words built up behind my teeth, vibrating for release and my hands moved quickly and surely, without stopping for pleasantries or lunch.

I grab my ice tea from the side table. The condensation has pooled around the base and quick drops fall to my neck, breast, creating a deep purple and jagged dash on my cotton shirt.

Maybe I’m in there, I think. Maybe that’s where my words are hiding.