My Cardboard Balcony

This Is Meant To Be Deep by Belinda Roddie Today has held no meaning; I assume that that's okay. I've painted my nails gray and sipped gray coffee from a chipped bowl. The humidity is killing me. It's autumn, but the air is thick. I see children leap frogging over fountains that haven't gushed water in over a year. Outside, a man debates whether or not he wants to be a patron. Maybe he can't decide between a macchiato or a chai. Oh, the mental conflicts he has to endure in a suburban snakehole like this. Elsewhere, buses break down on the busiest street. The traffic lights are blinking red. Eye open, eye closed, eye open, eye closed. The riders all get out and walk the last three miles back home. They are sweaty and tired. A child drags a torn up stuffed dinosaur against her ankle. Her nose is dusted with gray.

I knew that eventually, the teacher was bound to crack. And he cracked. The first clue was that he walked into the classroom without a necktie on. His shirt's top two buttons were undone, exposing the initial tuft of untamed chest hair. The second clue was the fact that he remained standing in front of the class, rather than collapsing into his desk as if our very presence winded him. The third, well, that was obvious - the veins in his eyes were as large and red as Hell's tunnels.