by 13 Stoploss
I reached my hand inside the box, pulling out the junk fliers and advertisements and coupons. But on top, above it all, I saw the thin envelope with the familiar two letters in the corner.
It's been five months since I began and I've been expecting the correspondence--I am within the 125 actual and beyond the 90 goal. So everyday, I walk out there, expecting to be let down, that today, and tomorrow today and the next day future today, are not the days.
Today is not that day, either, but still my hands shake and tremble. Might be the caffeine and an empty stomach, the fear and nervousness like when I knocked three times on the boardroom door, listening for the Command Sergeant Major to beckon me in.
That day, then, I passed. I became more than I was. Now, I'm waiting on someone to label me, some far away and unseen person, maybe in an office with a stack of paper people like me on a desk, mixed with stats and statements and charts, or in some cold, brushed steel examining room.
It's the second "we haven't forgot about you" letter I've received since March, the second time my hands have trembled nervous with fear or excitement when reaching into the box. And I wonder whether my nightmares aren't real enough or whether the classroom explosions aren't loud enough. Do I need to spend more time collecting my thoughts, drifting off in mid sentence, while speaking to others? Should I not be polite when some airhead asks me how many Iraqi's I've killed? Should I not go out, so that I can save myself the embarrassment of just finding a corner anyway? Maybe I shouldn't fear the pills, the bottles of pills, that knock me out so strong that not only do I fall asleep, but I can't wake up. And instead of drinking a couple every night, maybe I should multiply the couple by three, so that I am more withdrawn from my marriage and my family and my studies.
I'm wrong, but I'm not a liar.