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It’s twenty minutes into public comment about a bill you wrote too close before your

self-imposed deadline and hoped would pass under the radar like your last few did, and this guy

keeps trying to look you in the eyes. You’ve already taken two bathroom breaks, gotten two Diet

Cokes from the break room, and if you leave again, one of your deskmates will throw a clot. The

person at the podium is creeping toward the allocated two-minute-per-person mark and is not

slowing down, and is still dogging you with that you-killed-my-family face. You’d hoped this

meeting would be over before nine, but it’s running long, and you’re about to lose your two-year

streak. You had a brief thought like, “Wouldn’t it be ironic if the word was something like

‘freedom’ or ‘justice,’” but you can’t think of a five-letter word for freedom, so whatever. Your

dazed face drops from the fire exit sign to your lap, and you start tapping out vowel-heavy

guesses to narrow it down. There’s a new commenter and they’re talking about their mom or

something. You notice they have makeup on their collar and your eyes gravitate back to your

crotch. You’re on your last guess and you breathe heavy through your mouth. The whole bottom

row of letters is still white. Fuck. This is what happens when you rush things. You don’t want to

just look up the answer because that feels like cheating, and it’ll taint the whole thing. You make

your final guess and beef it. The crown of your head tilts to the floor, then you startle because

people are clapping. Fuck. The council president smacks her gavel and cops squeeze between the

aisles. Fuck. Your bill passes, and when you get to your car in the underground parking complex,

you smack your head against the fresh-leather steering wheel and wipe it clean with your shirt

sleeve so the salt doesn’t ruin the upholstery.