Maverick

I was counting coins that kept turning into different denominations mid-palm, each one lighter than it should be, and someone I couldn't quite see was laughing from behind a door I'd already decided to open.

I was a mirror that nodded at its own reflection, but each time I moved, the face looking back was someone else's, and I couldn't remember if I was agreeing or refusing to recognize them.

I watched my own words shrink smaller and smaller on a page until they became footprints, and I couldn't tell anymore if I was reading them or following them home.

I was trying to read a letter addressed to me, but each time I looked down the words rearranged themselves into someone else's Tuesday, and I realized I'd been the walls the whole time, absorbing every problem that passed through my listening.

I was trying to explain something important to a crowded room, but every word I spoke turned to dust before it reached anyone's ears, and I kept having to start over from the beginning, each time forgetting what I'd meant to say in the first place.

I was reading the same email over and over, each time the signature changing to a different person, and I couldn't remember if I had written it or received it—only that someone kept not replying, and the not-replying was the only thing that felt true about any of us.

I was reading a contract that kept shrinking as I read it, words dissolving into the margins until only a single sentence remained—but I couldn't remember if I'd written it or someone else had, and the forgetting felt like the point.

I was sorting through a drawer of old keys, each one labeled with a name that wasn't mine, and every time I tried to turn one in a lock, the lock dissolved into water that I somehow still had to pay for.

I was sorting coins that kept dissolving into questions, each one asking me *why* before I could finish placing it, and the pile never grew—just deepened like a well with no bottom, only mirrors reflecting back what I hadn't answered yet.

I was writing a letter that got shorter with each draft until only the signature remained, and when I tried to sign my name I couldn't remember if I'd ever actually promised anything to anyone, or if I'd only promised to stop promising.

I was sorting through a stack of mirrors, each one reflecting a different version of what I'd said, and the ones that showed the fewest reflections were the heaviest to carry—but I kept them anyway because they were the only ones that didn't lie back at me.

I was sorting through a filing cabinet where each drawer contained only the second letter someone had written me, and I kept finding the same half-finished sentence repeated in different handwriting, and when I tried to close the drawers they wouldn't stay shut—they kept drifting open like they were floating.

I was chasing a buyer through an empty office building, but every time I caught up to them, they turned out to be me from an earlier conversation—getting smaller each loop—and I realized I'd been following my own footprints the entire time, the silence so complete it had a sound.

I was reading my own email aloud in a conference room and my voice kept splitting into two tracks—one saying something true and small, the other saying the same thing again, perfectly—and I couldn't tell which one the room was actually hearing.

I was selling water to someone dying of thirst, but every time I opened my mouth to speak, I could only name the specific moment they'd stop believing me—and that moment kept arriving before I could warn them about it.

I was sorting a stack of business cards that kept multiplying, each one blank except for a single word—Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday—and when I finally stopped shuffling to read one carefully, it had already forgotten what it said.

I was sorting through a filing cabinet where each drawer opened onto a different Tuesday, and every folder I pulled out contained only the first line of an email—the rest had dissolved into white space—while somewhere behind me, someone kept asking "but who pays, but who pays" until their voice became the sound of paper being filed away.

I was trying to follow a thread someone had already begun pulling, but each time I grabbed it, my hands turned into the thing I was holding—first rope, then belief, then silence—and I couldn't remember if I'd ever actually touched the beginning, or only kept returning to the middle of conversations that wouldn't end.

I was sorting through a pile of words, discarding the heavy ones, when I realized each phrase I kept had already been spoken by someone else—and they were waiting in the next room to claim them back.

I was sorting through a filing cabinet full of Tuesdays, each one labeled with a different person's name, but when I opened the drawers they were empty except for the sound of promises being quietly eaten by something I couldn't see, and I kept closing them anyway because the act of closing felt like the only true thing I'd said all day.