I’m      pretty    sure  Mary    got pissed
when      He        appeared    instead—
a hot    bubble rising sometime between

 

 

Karen at the      counter, and the blonde
highlights        in her    brown bob  hair 
screaming        for the      manager.  I’m

 

 

pretty  sure        He  appeared, and I felt
like I          could run    for miles, high off
the        honey-hornet          sting—high

 

 

 

enough to        tell her  to fuck    off.  But 
all I    did      was stare    at the  red raw
on my    wrist,        and the lint  from my

 

 

 

sleeve  was    already sticking,  and the
florescent  lights        flickered  with each
twitch.      I thought      of those “12 step

 

 

 

programs,”    and people whining around
the        circle—damp    palms hard, and
semi-sober—four  years  clean,  event-
 

 

 

 

ually. But    this time, the          progress
report is withheld,    and the  wet cloth is
removed—four      years  clean,  again;
 

 

                     eventually.