Anger Management

“You’re two apologies short of an anger management problem,”

she says, folding hands with chewed nails into the v of her lap.

I mimic, adopt a placating posture, explain—I don’t get angry.

I avoid confrontation, use the restroom two floors down to eschew

through-stall conversations, take the stairs rather than risk

the possibility of an elevator encounter. Anger, I say, is a waste

of time. I am becoming fluent

in the language of deep breathing and long distance running. You see—

“Have you ever wanted to shoot someone?” Haven’t you? Listen,

I don’t support the NRA, don’t even buy American. I am familiar

with Harris’s three principles of self-defense and still do not

believe safety is the second amendment. Lady, I don’t get angry. I just

imagine. I have pushed one thousand dreams down stairwells,

nurtured countless cancers. I have rubbernecked along

phantom highways of despair, have ground the heel of my favorite

black boots into the neck of the corporate machine. I have never

hit someone who did not deserve it.

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