Mad

As if on a roller coaster with defective seat belts, anger holds onto every inhale and exhale with white sweaty knuckles before ordering my goose bumps to solute every strand of hair on my arms and legs.


After a few breathless moments, I clumsily stand, grab the sheet and pillow and walk barefoot into the living room. In the fetal position, I lay on the couch listening to fire trucks. When the quiet returns, I hear three blind mice tap dancing on cement and cocaine behind the couch. I stomp the floor, slap the wall and wait for the toenails of rodents to scratch and scurry away. He walks in. "What are you doing?" He asks.  "I heard mice. I think." I say, noticing then, the old creaky pipe beside me. He walks away, unsure what to think of me, his girlfriend. I follow behind him with my pillow so that I can apologize and we can go to sleep.