Sporatic Breathing

The microscopic extraterrestrial behavioral patterns of the human race are the filling in the pie.
The index finger tugging at the skin beneath the thumb nail.
The tapping foot.
The wandering eyes.
The squinting.
The upper and lower teeth drawing the skin of the cheek imbetween.
The "ahem"'s and "mhmm"'s of the man on the subway in 21D across from you and two to the left.
The sporatic breathing.
The foggy windows in the passers-by preoccupied faces.

I enjoy the tapping of these lightly textured, black, buffed keyboard keys.
The itch on my ear reminds me that my ear exists and this is how I hear the conversation across from me.
Hidden from my view are the social instincts of my peers at work.
Hidden from my view by the computer moniters.
They think they're not flirting.

We all think we're not flirting.
This is a common deception that we use against our naiive children subconciouses
as a way to keep from feeling guilty.
You can't feel guilty about something you haven't done.
Lie to yourself and you'll never know you did it.
If confronted about it, your lie will be even better because you won't think it's a lie.

I often imagine myself telling the truth about something that hasn't happened.
If it's already happened, I can't imagine it. I can see right through myself.
But if it hasn't happened and still remains a virgin situation, strictly hypothetical,
I can imagine it all in my head
and hear my answer
and I think, so this is what I sound like when I'm being honest.
Then I put myself into a lie and say the same kind of thing I said as an honest girl.
It's like practice for my next show.
Curtain rises, girl lies, girl smiles nonchalantly and bows.
Scene.