The Other Side of Disappearing

by Kate Clayborn

Those people on the corner lot who put out a political sign I deeply disagree with last year, probably lamenting the mere sight of a woman in pants walking around unattended.

She’s got that teenaged emotional elasticity that’s as exhausting as it is admirable.

Obviously, a catalogue of Jess Greene’s microexpressions is not the intel I’m supposed to be gathering, but so far, everything else has been a dead end.

Briefly, I wonder if anyone’s ever stood up in the middle of a restaurant to ask if there’s a therapist in the room.

It’s wishful thinking, I’m sure, but if she were sitting next to me right now, maybe this time, she’d set her hand on top of mine. It’s too small to patch the tear, but I think it’d help all the same.

She’s herself, turned up to eleven.

My rib cage is a pinball machine; Salem’s words a cold and polished steel ball, banging into the flashing, reactive pieces of me.

Fighting with Salem is like fighting with one of my sisters. It’s as if someone drew her a map to all my sore spots.

I’m sure it sounds stupid to say— Hawkins: It doesn’t. Durant: Well, I mean. Maybe let her say it first, and then you can decide. Caulfield: Jeez.