Today's writing

I’m practically waltzing within the gray walls of the basement lab. “Relieved?” Adam asks.

“Fuck yeah. He barely even looked at me.”

“This is a good thing?”

And like that, the balloon pops. The air leaks. Did this guy even look at me? Can the numbers tell the whole story?

Am I hitting yet another dead end?

Adam sees my face and grabs my hand. “Don’t get upset,” he says. It comes about 30 seconds too late. I’m already feeling the energy evaporating through my pores. Sometimes it happens like this. One moment you’re brushing the ceiling and the next you’re kneeling on the floor.

The lab tech emerges and calls my name. I leave Adam behind for the second time today and follow her into a white space spotted with Post-It notes and fill-in slips, all inscribed with handwriting I can barely read, let alone understand. I settle into a seat and offer my arm. My eyes fix on a lone teddy bear propped on a counter, its head swaying low, its gaze directed at the floor.

“My name is Layla,” the tech says. “I’m an intern. Can I draw your blood?”

Shit. Layla, no offense, but an intern? Are you like one of those short-bus riders who work at Longs Drugs on weekends, crossed eyes full of helpful eagerness? Employ the retards to bag your tampons, fine, but do I really want anyone but a certified professional fucking around with my veins?

“Sure,” I say.

She takes a swath of what looks like rubber-band material and ties it around my upper arm. It’s tight. It cuts into the skin. I bite the inside of my cheek but say nothing. Sometimes you lack the strength to advocate for yourself. Sometimes you let the world roll over you, wave after wave, mouth closed, eyes open, hoping simply not to drown.