THE RIDE by Sarah Myers
Sarah MyersTHE RIDE You’re buying tampons, brushing your hair, cleaning the crud off the kitchen table, and the sight of your own stupid fingers reminds you that the bottom has dropped out of everything. Then you’re talking to a colleague or a friend or a weird and lovely student, and you smile with every inch of your teeth because you’re there with them (you are, you really are), but you’re also not there, hearing, as you do, the constant low hum of am I real? and isn’t it strange we’re all just skin bags for cosmic particles? and how can someone you trust with every careful corner of your bones betray you? So you picture the time when you were eight and you managed not to die when your stepmother made you bike for miles with blood streaming down your leg from that fall through the rusty sewer grate because … chop! chop! read more!