“It’s okay to be discouraged, to say ‘I can’t see’ or ‘I can’t feel’ or ‘I’m tired,’” the disjointed voice came through the phone sounding crackly and sleep-deprived. It was only 9:11p.m.
Was it my imagination, or did this fluffy French-accented voice sound exasperated with me? I sensed it was time to wrap it up.
Never a good idea to call those helplines, I just end up feeling silly. Like a kid asking her mom to check under the bed for monsters for the third time that night.
It was raining on me now, but I couldn’t be bothered to go inside. It was dark in there, and out here there were little speckled lights across the skyline that looked to me like fuzzy blurs without my glasses on. Blue, green, yellow, red. One pink, I think. My scar was showing. I pulled my cardigan down over it.
The sun was still stubbornly refusing to make its descent, and somewhere in the street below, some asshole honked his horn way too loudly without good reason.