I sat at the table in our small hallway of a kitchen. It’s the kind of table you’d find in a dusty diner somewhere off Highway 50. A place time had long forgotten. I was lost in thought for what seemed like hours until my eyes decided to focus across the room onto the cheap vinyl that was curling at the edges. Even the floor was trying to escape this place. I gently tapped the table with the key I had been gripping. I swear I had a metallic taste in my mouth just from holding it. My eyes wandered up the wall to watch the whistle on a string. It was hanging on a nail and just barely swaying back and forth from the fan above. The fan that had a thick layer of dust clinging for dear life on each tired blade. The whistle was red for Dodge Ball Wednesday’s. Today was Tuesday. He’s a gym teacher at a middle school. He thinks he’s such hot shit. He lived for Wednesday’s. I could just picture his pastie white skin contorting as he yells and blows that stupid whistle. His face always seems to have a sweaty gleam to it that grosses me out. I turn to my tapping hand and see a lone blank Post-it stuck to the marbled laminate. It mocks me. There is nothing here for me. Could leaving be as easy as peeling this small piece of paper off the table? I set the key on the Post-it. The screen door makes a high-pitched groan behind me. It sounded almost…happy.
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