Thursday

By Peter J.

There’s that clock again. You watch it. Its mocking hands scoot along.

Every Thursday. This same clock; this same wall.

Grayish cream, like the color of coffee left out since 6 (a.m. or p.m.). You fidget in your plastic purple chair. You try to take slow breaths, but you find the air of the room is asphyxiating. The door is closed. You realize there really is no air. You gasp and struggle, gripping your chair’s arms. I’m dying, you think.

Then the other door opens. “I think I have a new claustrophobia medicine for you to try,” the therapist says gently.