I tell myself, don't make it a thing. Then the pen clicks twice again. Tick — tick — tick. Not yet. Tick — tick — tick. Still not yet. Not mad. Not yet. Just count the repeats. Tap of a shoe. Sleeve sticking to me. Nothing by itself deserves what it gets. That's why I swallow it. That's why it stacks. One more little thing lands wrong— I go from quiet to way too much. I keep it down, I keep it down— now keeping it down is making it worse. Jaw shifts once; I hear my teeth. Shirt seam pulls every time that I breathe. I fix the cable. It catches my shoe. Move the cup left. Now the ring bothers me too. Someone clears their throat. I grip the pen. Tell myself, leave it. Then say it again. I fix one thing; something else feels wrong. Now every little sound takes too damn long. STOP DRUMMING YOUR FINGERS. DON'T SAY “RELAX.” I KNOW IT'S SMALL. THAT'S THE PROBLEM. One more little thing lands wrong— I go from quiet to way too much. I keep it down, I keep it down— now keeping it down is making it worse. Tick — tick — Enough. No third one. No holding it down. The pen clicks once.
