Imprecation.

I pop the soda top, the crisp crack of aluminum separating from aluminum, the quick rush of air from its cell the most satisfying sound of my day but for those rare occasions when I hear a voice in my ear, the particular frequency of which has never failed to simultaneously excite and relax me, so much does it sound like the only place I’d ever want to be.

I take two, three large gulps before rising to close my office door, before turning my back to the window to open the bottom file drawer--the big one--and unscrewing the bottle cap waiting inside. It’s a moment I’ve looked forward to every day this week, the methodical swirling of an aluminum top on glass rivets, a perfect fit that irresistibly reminds me of somewhere I am not.

The soda gets topped off, the bottle recapped, and I turn back to the monitor, thinking today might finally be the day. But there are a stack of insurance claim forms before me that I am successfully ignoring, and a poorly veiled attempt at cruelty that I am not so successfully ignoring, and I realize that perhaps my efforts are better spent emptying my can than remembering the way those arms feel wrapped around my waist the first few moments after I’ve interrupted with my arrival silent and unfathomable thoughts.

I count the hours like jellybeans in a jar, I fill out those silly crosswords that I’m so terrible at. I sip my drink and force myself to breathe. But every breath reminds me of all the things I must do but cannot, all the things I want to do but must abandon, and all the moments that, try as I might, I can neither forget nor relive.