Gathering Parts
The body ages like Oberkampf Street — once a gutter for the broke, now a playground for men marinated in lukewarm beer, three fifty at happy hour. I pedal my electric bike. Seven in the evening, the sun presses its weight against a body soaked in winter. Fat shifts with every bump. The new folds at my neck. Go swimming already. This dress is too short. A warm breeze licks at my thighs. Slumped shoulders, bones pulled inward. Hold yourself up. But even self-loathing doesn’t get me to the pool.
Weariness follows me everywhere. I wait in line. The pharmacist clocks me. Maybe from the phone. Maybe just from knowing the type. I’m the one who called about the Ritalin. His eyes land on me through stylish frames.
You know it’s out everywhere, right?
Yeah.
And it’s only getting worse.
By some miracle, they have a box.
Thanks.
The computer freezes. The pharmacist disappears into the back. He’s my age. Maybe he thinks he can talk me out of it. Under the mini dress my thighs blur into each other. The other eight sent me away before I even made it to the counter. France loves its eight-hour essay exams but sends kids on the spectrum to Belgium. Exile disguised as language fluency. I wonder what it would be like to live in a country where the official language is —
He returns with a crumpled box, apologetic.
Missing ten pills.
I stop rubbing my thumbnail against my index.
I’ll take it.