Attached at the Hip

by Christine Riccio

There’s a lot of sweat happening between my back and the leaves. My anxiety is so obnoxious. It can’t just torture me silently; it has to turn me into a wet carrot.

Remy’s torso is calling out to my eye sockets; they’re itching to slide back in his direction against my will.

hesitates, eyeing me bashfully. “What does she say?” I prompt. “She says we have to feel our feelings so we don’t become them. They creep up on us.”

Shit. Say something clever. “Delectable’s a word for olds!” Delectable’s … a word … for olds?

Anxiety builds in my gut like an abandoned Tetris game.

My brain feels like a junk drawer full of wires so completely entangled that I can’t even begin to make sense of what is what.

He’s staring, unabashedly smiling at me. Like I’m—I don’t know, something impressive. A cool elephant. A nice ghost. A tree? A good tree.

Everything that comes out of my mouth goes through a five-step mental filter.