Spiritually bound to my desk by steel chains and forced to listened to the passive aggressive hushed tones of medical staff that loves to hate each other. I go into the back lab and lay my abdomen across the stubby, rattling, rolling stool. It hurts my ribs a little, to distribute all my weight to that one spot, but it hurts in a way that I consider a nice distraction from the intolerable environment. I do not want to say, “Hi– how can we help you?” I do not want to smile at folks I am not happy to see. Instead, I reach my hands far in front of me and lift my feet off the floor, floating in a suspended plank pose. A song tickles my throat, but I clamp my lips shut because there are patients here. They (the boss people) don’t encourage singing at work, and I imagine that goes double for lyric-less undulating while on the clock. I silently scrape my nails across the carpet. It feels good.

I spend the rest of the afternoon remembering the feeling of fingers smushed into the fibers, carpet peeking underneath my nails. I pretend I am anywhere else.