You tell me it won’t hurt a bit. I perch on the examination table and roll up my sleeve. Tapping at my veins, you inadvertently drop everything on the floor. Scuffling near my feet, you pick up spare needles and containers while one hand keeps the point in my arm throughout. You ask me if I’ll return to work. I will, but not before I eat a pain au chocolate and gape at the blue sky. As I leave I think, don’t speak to me: if you wish me luck, I’ll take your words and throw them out the window.
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