Flick of the Wrist

He made the gesture.

That quick, dismissive

flick of the wrist.

Like brushing off a fly.

Or dirt from a sleeve.

About files. How to arrange them.

A small thing.

But it pulled me back.

To the room. The cold glass table.

My mentor, eyes sharp,

the way he looked over

my pages. All of them.

Then that same hand,

a quick, cutting motion.

Said 'fundamentally flawed.'

And I believed him.

What did it teach?

To arrange files better?

No.

Just that some small movements

can tear a thing open.

And the wound,

it still wants

to breathe.