Giving Blood on a Sunday Evening

Flashbacks play on the blank television screen at my feet. I imagine being in the back of an ambulance. Needle in my left arm, blood bag see-sawing out of sight. Allowing my mind to drift feels like a crime. Afraid of getting caught, I shift my focus to my phone. I scroll Instagram while listening to my friend's mother talk in the lounge behind me. She is already finished. Her blood flows quickly, with urgency. It knows where it belongs. My blood has slowed, and the phlebotomist, singing along to 90s Usher playing overhead, wiggles the needle around in my arm until she is satisfied. I feel a twinge in my gut and look the other way. Each time I think my wounds have closed my mind reminds me of a burst pipe in the attic of a century-old two-story home. Easy for the first level to ignore. Is that rain? That reminds me—I need to water the plants. Easier for the basement, who exists in familiar darkness. I am the basement, scrolling on my phone, watching the same sitcoms for comfort, avoiding the painful parts, because I cannot contain them all at once. The second I allow them to flow will be the moment I drown. The woman with bright red hair and black scrubs calls me honey and tells me I'm done. She tells me to hold my arm in the air and to leave the bandage on for an hour. I pretend she means it when she tells me to have a good night. I grab a soda from the fridge and tuck the gift card in my pocket as I walk down the bus steps. She pretends I gave because I wanted to.