Fourteen Minutes Each Way

It's 11:52 and I'm in the pharmacy

holding a travel-size ibuprofen

I already have at home.

I know I have it at home. I checked

before I left.

The fluorescent above me flickers

every four seconds or so—

not enough to notice

unless you've been standing here long enough

to start counting.

I've been counting.

I drove fourteen minutes to be in this light.

I don't need the ibuprofen.

I needed to need something

small enough to find in a pharmacy at midnight—

something that would make the drive

make sense when I got home.

Self-checkout beeps once.

I pay. Pocket the bottle.

I've done this before.

Tylenol last time. Mouthwash the time before.

I've counted back and it's every

two to three weeks—

the apartment going tight at 11pm

in a way I can't explain

except by driving somewhere

that stays open and lit

and doesn't ask what I want.

Fourteen minutes back.

The bottle in my pocket

making no sound at all.