civilized                                                                                      

Yesterday I drove to work. In a car. In my car. Alone. Drinking my coffee, listening to NPR. Without anyone stepping on my feet, farting behind me or leaning against my shoulder. No one pushing me into the standclearoftheclosing doors, swaying like cattle, lurching lonely through the darkness. 

profiling

My preceptor is older than I expected, jocular. He has a bumper sticker at his desk for the presidential candidate I am decidedly not voting for and I am surprised to see that his car keys belong to a Japanese import. On his walls are autographed pictures two former presidents of the eighties, a calendar of ducks and several snap shots of dead animals on proud display. 

We talk briefly about New York, about my new community, this quiet place; we steer clear of politics, he makes a careful comment about the "certain kinds of people" you find in places "like that" and a small, confusing anger bubbles up from below. Sitting in the clear light of morning, waiting for the day to begin, I am suddenly and at once awkward and dubious, wondering how I will pass these next few weeks, his eyes flickering slightly, subtly, repeatedly, below the neckline of my coat. 

big fish

The day is benign, boring. I follow him from room to room, listening in on the discussions that ensue about osteoarthritis, degenerative joint disease. He asks little of me yet I get the distinct impression I have failed to leave a good mark. After these months of palpable pathology and extreme abnormalities I am woefully bereft in my knowledge of the mundane. And suddenly, swiftly, I feel very much a small fish in the glowing, gilded fish bowl of Ivy League medicine.