Trust Fall

I stopped weighing myself the year we all stayed inside. I’m still not sure what my face looks like, but came close when I wore a mask every day. I became my own eyes and eyebrows. I also became a bitch on the internet. I started doing things like laughing in public, if only because nobody could see my mouth. I started doing things like soaking my feet on the balcony in a red plastic bucket. I would leave my blinds open as I crawled into bed in the midday. I would make eye contact with the seniors’ home across the alley as I slipped my hands under the sheet. It was one of those things I did just for me. I nearly biked into traffic several times. I walked across many bridges. I felt nostalgic for everything. I took an Uber whose driver had a disco light, which felt overwhelmingly beautiful like a junior high dance, overwhelmingly beautiful like dancing. I wanted to go back exactly three months prior, to March 3, to a bar in Texas, where a stranger became obsessed with all of my friends and told us he could get us whatever we wanted and drove us to a party that ended before we got there, before the world ended one week later. I wanted to go back one year to your car, where I said you could take me wherever you wanted and you took my drunk ass to A&W. In the middle of the present, I picked up a passenger: a hair too long to be mine in the teeth of my sandal’s Velcro, before the wind blew it away. It seemed to touch on a greater theme of my life I could not quite define. I think danger is what I’d get if I could get whatever I wanted. I could touch the crosswalk button with my whole hand, lick cinnamon right off my finger.