The Plaza

A mental itch – somewhere off to the side of my psyche in just the right spot to keep me peeking over my shoulder, my shoulders level with the bridge of my nose, back hunched and neck craned forward, in an unconsciously defensive posture – becomes a branding iron pressing into my skull just behind my ear. I keep reaching up to feel it but there’s nothing there, so I spastically check my six o’clock to find that I’m helplessly alone, save for a few distant looming glares from concerned passersby whose furrowed brows intensify my condition.

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