It's only Tuesday

My blue dress and black tights and poet boots and green and white stripey cardigan isn’t as twirly today. My dress sticks to my tights when I walk. wadded up like toilet paper when you wad toilet paper. It inches higher and higher on my thighs. I walk like a little girl tugging a wedgie.

This morning, I went to get another pad of paper from the office supplies. I only needed the pad of paper, but when I opened the doors, I wanted to steal all of it. I wanted the pens and the staples, the clips, the folders. I wanted the envelopes, the highlighters, the gummy erasers. I wanted to stuff them into my shoes, down my shirt, hoard them, cradle them in my arms the way people carry socks to their drawers, apples to carts – all the matter spilling out. I took a blue highlighter because I don’t have a blue one. And my pink is running out. I can justify taking that.

I was walking to my car last night in an empty lot, no one was around, except a car was on. The one car by the railroad tracks. Empty, one, engine hot. I did circles were I stood, looked at the bank, but the blinds were closed. There was nothing. No body, but me. A car revved waiting for a driver.

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