I sit in my car going over details of what happened moments ago. I recall the turn of the key. I remember tugging at the door handle. The lock was tight. I know the door is safe.
But familiar circuits are firing in my mind. The heavyweight champion enters the ring and roars. Check! Check! Check!
The skimpy underdog hops the ropes. Start the ignition. Drive away.
I envy the underdog’s quick footwork and their ability to move on.
My mind is leaden and fixed on the status of the lock.
It would be so quick to check, and it would feel so good, euphoric even. I crave certainty like a drug. And without it I’m…
Climbing out of the car, approaching the door, jerking the handle–watching the champion deck the underdog who falls to the mat. Will they survive to fight another day?