You did the thing again where you forgot I was here.
I clocked the whole hour. While you were up in the head, choosing words, I was down in the trenches doing the real work: I dumped a little heat into your palms so they went damp, and you hated me for it, wiped them on your good pants twice. Sorry.
That was me trying to help. Old wiring. Somewhere back there this used to mean run, and I couldn't tell the difference between a stranger with a clipboard and a thing with teeth. So I got the legs ready. You didn't use them. You just sat, so I bounced one knee under the table to spend it.
Your jaw was a fist the entire time. Your breath went shallow and high, little sips, like you were rationing it, and I kept it going anyway, quiet, in the background, the way I always do. The heart, I'll be honest, was showing off. Big and loud in the throat. It wanted them to know we were serious.
You called it a question you didn't know the answer to. I only felt the stomach fold in half and hold. That's all it ever is down here. Whatever a "second-round" is, it landed in the shoulders, and I'm still holding it now, hours later, up around the ears where you left it.
You'll find out tomorrow if they want us. I don't understand want. I understood the walk to the car, the way your feet finally trusted the ground again.
We did fine. We always do.
Later, when the head quiets down: some water, and put me down flat somewhere dark.
I've been carrying this since morning.