The Time It Takes

Four days, three hours and ten seconds was all the time I needed.

I bite my lower lip opening the crack. A red stream of blood runs along the lines of my swollen mouth mapping every part of it. Scarlet water drips down my chin in an attempt to escape its host: ME.

I’m unrecognizable. Five days earlier I was a different woman who was proud, strong, and fearless. I lean forward into the mirror and wonder, where’s that girl now? 

In The Rain

Water drips from my hair, my cheek, and the end of my nose. Where’s my umbrella?

“Why do you walk so far?” Marie asks. Then she blurts out, “Parking’s available closer to the office.”

Should I tell her? Or will it create a moment of: I can hear a paper clip hit the carpeting on the other side of the floor?

My friend slipped off a stool. It wasn’t a bungee jumping incident or skydiving accident. She’s short, and wanted to get oregano from the top shelf.

“It’s a good form of exercise,” I say.