Sometime in Late February
I am irritable. It started with a soreness in my back. The areas around my shoulder blades began to ache late in the afternoon. My coworker to my left types with venomous strokes, shaking both her monitors as well as mine. Often it doesn’t bother me, but today I noticed every little shake.
The irritability followed me home. It was there on the elevator and the escalator, through the turnstile and on the subway platform, and it was at its worst in the car. Feeling compressed and intruded upon in the subway is unpleasant; being irritable compounds and combines those feelings into something that sits within and eats away at me.
I can’t get out of the car and up the stairs fast enough. Even as I’m escaping, the clatter of a girl’s soles adds to the list of things I seem unable to handle. Crossing the street doesn’t lessen the noise.
I breathe voluntarily. My senses fall from their stress-heightened peak. Now it’s through the front door and up three flights to the apartment. Though most days the useless, dirty shit within makes me cringe and intensifies my irritability, tonight I welcome it, knowing that it’s something I can count on never to surprise me.