The clock is ticking down. The clicking of laptop keys. Whispering when there shouldn’t be. Whispered greetings after a long break.
Clack, clack, clack go the keys.
It’s a rhythm that pulses through the room. The room is actually a… caboose? Yes, a caboose! A sigh. Another sigh from somewhere else.
Subtle shifting positions, a chair adapting to the new balance of weight.
The clock is ticking down. My mind narrates every move, every breath, every sound. New and old faces surround me. I am excited by the new ones, young and old, heads bowed and focused. I have missed the old ones. I have missed Jamie’s quick, animated sounds and movements. I have missed David’s slow, solemn head nods and shakes as he listens to someone read, eyes closed, as if he listens to a classical piece of music. I have missed Lora’s passion for the group, ensuring that enough people get the chance to read what their pens or fingers have created from their minds.
The clock is ticking down. I don’t know if I want it to go faster or slower.
Clack, clack, clack go the keys.
I watch people write around me, wrists bent and wonder if anyone’s hand is cramping. I suddenly become aware of my breath, the pattern, the speed at which I breathe, the way my legs are crossed, my feet inside my boots, the taste of my saliva as it slides down my throat – vodka with a hint of lime.
The clock is ticking down. I take a moment to focus on the focus that permeates the room. Some people’s eyes are closed, heads down almost as if in prayer. A sneeze breaks the silence.
Clack, clack, clack go the keys.
I take a moment to assess the missing faces. Old faces who have not returned. I make eye contact with someone. God, I fucking hated that. I ruminate on it. I wonder if she, too, is writing about it.
The clock is ticking down. There is something about taking in everything in the present moment. Time slows. Sounds grow. Colors brighten. Every movement stands out. I feel a sense of calm but also panic. Is that even possible? The duality of woman. Subdued anxiety.
Clack, clack, clack go the keys.
Ice rattling in a glass. Throats cleared. I think how weird it is, the need to clear your throat when you’re silent. Now, I am thinking about clearing my throat. Did I lock the door when I left the house? Shit, I didn’t. Or did I?
Two old faces enter the room, one new. I try to make eye contact to no avail and wonder if anyone and everyone is mad at me… if they fucking hate me… Not so subdued anxiety.
The clock is ticking down. I start feeling antsy, playing with my pen erratically, making eye contact with another person at that very moment. Embarrassing. I am now disgustingly aware of my poor posture but too lazy and comfortable to do anything about it. Nevermind, I just fixed it. Subconsciously self-conscious. I put my pen down. Everyone else is still writing. Oh well.
The clock is ticking down.
