Brown Bird XLI

I can’t go to the grocery store. Every time I try, I catch the patch of drool on the headrest out of the corner of my eye. Before I can remind myself to breathe my hands start to shake, and I remember that night all over again. My chest runs warm, my ears ring, my fingers feel numb, and I here the voice of the cashier all over again trying to be nice—and the knot in my throat trying to remain pleasant. Eventually, I inevitably look at the empty seat in the back, and feel you next to me. It’s the same ending every night, whatever diner is still open, whatever ramen shop is still serving pho in late hour. I roll the window down, and drive the other direction.