Clearance

Roll left, she said. Then right. Don't lift.

Her voice had the flatness of someone

who's said it four hundred times this month.

I gave her my cooperative face—

the one I keep for DMVs and parent-teacher nights

and any room where I need to seem

like I don't take up much space.

The man one seat over hadn't moved

since I walked in. Hands on his knees,

jaw locked. We were both pressing our prints

into the same ink, same Tuesday afternoon,

but I was there to be cleared

for field day—orange slices, sunscreen—

and he was there for something

I kept trying not to look at.

She rolled each finger flat against the pad.

I made a joke about how it felt

like a confession. She didn't laugh.

In the lot I rubbed the smudge on my jeans.

It stayed two days—a gray comma

on the side of my palm I kept noticing

at the sink, in bed, at a red light

where I pressed harder

and it only spread.

Two days of looking like I'd touched

something I wasn't supposed to.

The check came back clean.

I don't know why that disappointed me.