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  • by the front door to the state office building, walking down Wilson with groceries

    You have to work the weekend shift again. The wife is at her mother's house in Boca, taking care of the old woman's taxes (taking a break from you, really). The kids have the flu and you've been wiping noses and doling medicine all night. No personal days left, you couldn't beg off this eight hour shift of scheduling deliveries of coal and paperclips for the statehouse furnaces. After 90 minutes you think, if I were a woman, I'd put my head on my desk and weep from exhaustion.

    You unlock your desk drawer and root around in the back corner. I'd rolled back behind the stale chewing gum and frayed pack of post-its. You palm me, walk outside. Your buddy Joe gave me to you six months ago, talking about a little boost, something to get you through the day. You stand in the entrance, look down at me, wonder what I am. Wonder if I'll make you feel bigger. Smaller. Wonder if the three colleagues in the office today will know that you're on something. And what if there's drug testing next week? And what if you end up addicted like your cousin Rick with the meth?

    If I had a will, I'd be willing you to swallow me. I'd want to slide down your soft gullet, my blue shell melting. I'd dream of dissolving into your blood stream, no longer me, just a force inside your body, dilating your capillaries, driving your heart rate higher, amping your adrenal drip, making you giddy.

    It's the Midwest. You toss me into the bushes. I roll slowly to the curb.
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