Window Seat

I always get that shallow-breathing, clammy, shaking-in-my-boots feeling that I can never rationalize away.

(Spicy Indian snack stains my fingers turmeric. I shovel little bits into my mouth and find an assortment later: chickpeas, lentils and puffed rice in my crotch and resting upon my breasts.)

I pretend not to be a bumbling mess, but I betray myself every time.

I'm glad you got me a window seat. I hope I can see the mountains.