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What if he turned his angry eyes on me, knowing Istolehis pen?
I knew it was ridiculous to follow this train of thought, but I couldn’t help it. It was already gaining momentum on the tracks, barreling forward toward the hellish horizon.
The worst part was, it didn’t make any sense to feel this way. Iknewit didn’t, but I couldn’t control it. Here I was, helplessagainas my stupid brain forced adrenaline through my veins.
The wicked tumbleweed of anxiety began sucking all of my thoughts into its brambles, snowballing into a massive knot of fear. I couldn’t help but feel horrible that once again, I was letting it get out of control. And I felt like even more of a failure than normal because I’d seen Dr. Silk earlier. Were her soothing words and reassurances less effective now? Was I developing a tolerance to my therapy as well as the Xanax?
The lights were too bright.
The squeaking footsteps down one of the nearby aisles ripped through my ears.
I could hear the off-key humming of a child from some direction, and then my nebulous worry locked onto that.
What if the kid knocked over the bandaids and mouthwash and toothpaste to the floor? Some employee who stocks everything would have to clean it up, and they’d walk by and give me that disappointed look that asked, “Why didn’t you do anything? You could have stopped this from happening.”
Shame.
Shame.
Shame.
My hands went to my temples as I tried to pull my train of thought off its tracks, but it was speeding up and this place was too loud and too bright and it was getting hard to breathe and maybe I was developing allergies and—
“Miss? Your prescription’s ready.”
I turned and saw the kind-faced pharmacist holding a white paper bag at the window.
“Th-thank you.” I scrambled to my feet.
It felt good to stand. It felt good to have something to do besides think.
I tucked the pen, my anxiety, and crinkling white bag into my purse.
After I paid, I made a beeline for the sliding doors. The flickering fluorescent bulb above was bothering me, injecting adrenaline into my veins again. I needed to get out of here; my brain was screaming at me that the pharmacy was unsafe. My pulse quickened along with my steps as I imagined the pristine tile floor crack and fissure in my wake, sucking my world into oblivion.
The automatic door slid open, inviting me into the sunny, verdant paradise outside.
I passed through the threshold.
I’d made it.
Relief washed over me as I breathed in the gentle, clean scent of lilacs.
That’s when I saw him again.
Tattoo Guy strode across the parking lot toward the pharmacy. He looked ridiculously out of place, yet like he owned whatever place that was. Same long, unkempt dark hair, same wild beard, same colorful tattoo sleeves. I wondered how far up those sleeves went. Did they stop at his shoulders? Bleed all over his chest? Was every inch of skin under his clothing blooming with ink?
I pursed my lips. Surely something like that kept him from getting a decent job.
As he marched through the parking lot, he carried a gleaming ruby motorcycle helmet in his hand and a powerful sense of purpose. His focus was so intense that it seemed to eclipse the sun. I was surprised the parked cars didn’t jump out of his path of totality.
He stormedtoward the pharmacy as if blazing a path of fire, his long-toed leather boots clacking defiantly every time they touched his shadow.
Heavy. Durable. Leather.
Motorcycle boots.
I scanned the glittering sea of parked cars. The only motorcycle in the lot was some vintage death machine parked diagonally across a white line, taking up two spaces.
