Sitting This One Out

11:00 on the dash.

The engine off.

The building's glass doors reflect someone who isn't going in.

My phone buzzes—it's the calendar, the thing I set to lie.

I don't silence it.

The parking lot smells like hot asphalt and something chemical.

Someone else's meeting is starting now,

their voices stacked in a conference room three floors up,

my name probably already missing from the roll.

It gets easier each time.

The first week I felt sick.

Now I'm just waiting for the minute hand to move,

for this hour to become an hour I was somewhere else,

for the clock to turn this stolen time

into something I can live with.

11:47.

Thirteen minutes and I can go back.

I can pretend the calendar had a glitch.

I can pretend I didn't see the email chain this morning,

didn't know exactly when they'd all be sitting down,

didn't choose this parking lot,

this silence,

this specific way of being absent.

The sun is loud on the windshield.

I'm sweating but the AC is off.

This is what it costs: an hour I'll never get back,

a boss who now asks if I'm feeling okay,

the knowledge that tomorrow

I won't have the courage to do this again.