If I had an out of body experience right now, it would look something like this:
A girl, dressed in black polyester blend pants with a purple stripe down the side,
alternates between picking at a small hole in the right thigh and plucking lint clumps
off the Arkansas pullover she stole from her sister.
In front of her sits a computer, overheating and angry, sticky from apricot juice.
To her right, a water bottle with a chewed cap and a list of lists
in handwriting too tiny to read. Her stomach growls once, twice, three times
before heating up two day old leftovers in a faculty lounge, hoping no one sees.
The spinning rainbow wheel in the middle of the screen makes her start scratching
her scalp, running fingers along her eyebrows, prodding at a blood blister
from slamming her finger in the frozen car door the other day.
The same day as the leftovers.
Finally, an email sends and the wheel stops spinning. She takes a bite of food
and the phone to the left rings. She crosses a note off her list.
There's something subtle about February.
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