During the Meeting

The gum works under their skin like a second mouth—

a small bulge that appears and disappears

under the soft geography of their cheek.

They're talking about my numbers, my lack of direction,

my inability to meet expectations,

and I'm watching the gum shift from side to side.

The sound reaches me before the words do.

Wet. Deliberate. Almost musical.

The way their tongue positions it,

the way their jaw grinds it down,

the small click when they move it,

a rhythm underneath the criticism.

I could say something.

I could point out the distraction,

the way their mouth's occupied with something

that's not the words they're using.

But I don't say anything.

I watch. I listen to the sound.

I catalog the motion.

I understand that people are readable

when they don't think anyone's watching,

that authority looks different

when there's gum working underneath it.

I nod.

I agree to do better.

I leave.

And I carry with me the knowledge

of their small habit,

their small weakness,

the way their certainty sits

alongside something dissolving

in their mouth.