Exposed

Halfway through the numbers,

I felt it start—

sweat at the base of my skull,

that cold bloom that means the body knows

something the mind hasn't caught yet.

My palms against the papers

were slick. I could feel it.

The light from above too bright,

too focused, like I was a thing

being studied under glass.

I kept talking.

The quarterly figures came out clean,

professional, a voice that wasn't mine

saying things I'd memorized

so I wouldn't have to think

about the back of my neck,

about the way my shirt was starting to cling,

about the ten faces pointed at me

like I was a problem they were trying to solve.

The body has its own agenda.

Doesn't care that the meeting is small,

that nothing is at stake,

that this is just information,

just numbers moving from one ledger to another.

It sweats anyway.

It betrays. It shows.

It proves that control is a lie

we tell ourselves in the shower,

in the car on the way to work,

and then abandon the moment

someone is actually watching.

I finished. Sat down.

Felt the sweat cool on my back

like evidence of the thing I couldn't hide,

the thing my body had decided

they needed to know about me.