Greta & Valdin

by Rebecca K. Reilly

Sometimes I think I can regain control by doing everything right, but the things I think I need to do don’t make any sense. It’s like being extremely superstitious but also hating yourself.

“Sorry, I just have to fill this up,” I say, standing up with my bottle, and everyone nods because water is an acceptable thing to want. It’s transparent.

I stand in the corridor in the engineering building of the university. It’s taken me three days to make this call. I’ve been overthinking it, testing out different locations around the city: on the bus so I could cut the conversation whenever I wanted by announcing that I had to get off the bus, under the motorway bypass so I could act like I couldn’t hear if I heard anything I didn’t like, down by the harbour so I could stare across the sea with a nostalgic glint in my eye.

“I don’t really feel like anything these days, just a beautiful husk filled with opinions about globalism and a strong desire to go out for dinner.”