Today in the drug store I walked to the magazine stand and saw that Harper's and The Economist were not there. I asked the cashier if they usually carry the magazines.
"I think we do, they must be sold out."
"Lot's of copies of the Atlantic left, not popular, huh?"
"I usually like to read it. It's not appealing this month."
"Nothing interesting. Sometimes these magazines stink."
"Well I think it's interesting, just don't have the time to read it, you know?"
"yeah."
I grab an Atlantic, the cover is gray with a picture of the Pacific (Indian?) Ocean. Missing flight MH370. Look's pretty interesting to me. And I certainly have the time to read it. I open to a page and start reading about social media attacks . I feel the cashier's eyes roam lazily about the room. I feel the tension of a conversation cut awkwardly short, my skin heats up and I notice the soft shirt, collar bent unevenly and sleeves rolled up with two folds.
Later I'm sitting before the kitchen counter reading a book I am so happy to be reading again after many years. My dad's on the phone with my mom next to me, and they're talking about me. I feel it again, the warm skin, the shirt that feels hot. The feeling of being watched.
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July 22nd, 2019. Boston, Ma.