Best case scenario: body dysmorphic disorder.

They expected nothing, for which they were grateful.

20 years on, he didn’t know whether he should break down sobbing or smother her with a pillow. Probably both. He felt that way about most of his patients and it had worn him down. He was drinking too much, losing sleep and had developed a pronounced limp. Physician, destroy thyself.

All I can trust right now is this chair, bobbing between glaciers somewhere in the black North Atlantic.

Not really a grid, but grid-signifying ornamentation.

What’s the problem?
No idea, really. It’s quite the mystery.
How does it manifest?
Microagressions, slamming drawers, muttering, occasionally striking oneself on the head with a crystal paperweight. The usual.
Does it leave a mark?
Only above the hairline.

The flimsy self regard of aging professionals defending their worth in the marketplace.

Stopped by the Hudson River overlook where we used to take the girls on the way to New England. Headed into the snack bar set back from the cliffs. Asked the kid at the counter about the “Free beer tomorrow” sign we always joked about. “Oh, we can’t serve alcohol here,” he said. “We get all the jumpers now the bridges are closed off.” I took my coffee outside, but couldn’t bring myself to look down. You moved on long ago. I’m still falling.