Chairs

My body haggles with an icy folding chair that wants to spit me out. The metal bar draws a line that my spine can’t agree with. Shoulder blades perched on the rail like misfit hinges, half on, half off, unsatisfied by either position.

The chair rocks on one short leg, a small, mean wobble. My feet find a split in the tile and settle into it like it’s a slot made for me.

A man is talking. Terrence. A deep voice, rising slowly like water finding level, filling the room without effort.

Terrence wears reading glasses on a chain. They ride his swollen pecs as he gestures. His calloused, meaty hands sway and settle, sway and settle.

The woman next to me—Deborah, I think—folded small on her metal seat, knees hiked to her chin. Her bare feet tucked beneath her, blunt toes splayed against the cold metal. Her thumbnail works at the seam of her jeans.

Pick, pick, pick.

Air whistles through a vent high on the wall. It lands on the crown of my head, cool, then disappears.

A man says his name. It falls into the circle and sits there. Another voice answers, “Hi.” The word is soft. It slides across the floor toward him, but stops short.

The floor wax has a smell. Not lemon. Not pine. Something flat and medical, like a bandage package.

My mouth makes saliva too slowly. The tongue feels thick, as if it’s been rolled in flour. I swallow, and the swallow is a job.

Somewhere in my ribs, a motor idles. It never turns off. It rattles the lungs. I breathe in, and the breath stops halfway, as if it meets a locked gate. I breathe out, and my chest gives up a thin, embarrassed sigh.

A paper sign is taped crooked on the wall. The tape has fingerprints pressed into it, cloudy smudges in the shine. The corners lift. Someone has tried to pry it free and failed. The paper says: ONE DAY AT A TIME.

My eyes settle on a spot on the floor between my shoes. A tiny black scuff. Old gum. Maybe a burn mark. An explosion. If I keep my eyes there, I can be a body in a chair and not a story.

The facilitator’s chair is different. Wider. Padded. It doesn’t wobble. The person in it wears shoes with thick soles. They tap once, twice, then stop. Their hands hold a notebook like a shield.

“We have newcomers,” they say.

The room waits. The waiting has weight. It leans into me.

My stomach turns over, slow. Like a dog deciding where to lie down. A hot stripe moves along the inside of my arms. My skin keeps receiving messages from a place it can’t remember.

Across the room, a woman rubs her thumb along the edge of a coin. Perfect circles, as if she’s polishing time. The coin flashes when it catches the overhead light. Flash, then dull. Flash. Dull.

A man in a hoodie keeps his eyes closed. His mouth moves. Not prayer. Not speech. Just movement, like he’s chewing a thought that won’t soften.

I blink, and the room changes distance. Near becomes far. Far becomes near. The buzz of the lights finds my teeth, vibrates the fillings in my molars, the hinge of my jaw.

The body wants a thing. It wants it with a clean, bright simplicity that makes shame feel complicated and optional. The want rises like water in a tub. I watch the line climb. I tell it nothing. I don’t bargain. I don’t plead. I just watch.

Someone laughs. It’s sudden and wrong in the room. Not joy. Release. A valve opening. The laugh turns into a cough. The cough turns into silence. The silence swells.

The facilitator says, “Thanks for sharing,” as if they’re paying a bill.

Another name. Another “Hi.” The words keep coming, a slow rain.

My leg starts to bounce. The body trying to climb out of itself. I pin it down with the heel of my other shoe. The sole squeaks. Heads turn, then unturn. Nobody cares. Everybody cares. Both are true.

A man talks about his kids. He says their ages like numbers in a code. He says he missed a birthday. He says he missed two. He says he missed his chance. His eyes shine. He does not cry.

The coin flashes again. Dull. Flash. Dull.

The facilitator’s eyes sweep the circle and stop on me.

“In here,” the facilitator says, “we tell the truth.”

It lands in my lap like a wet towel.

The room holds its breath.

The chair under me finally stops wobbling, as if it has decided to stay.

Terrence leans in. His glasses swing wildly, then sway, then settle.

Deb stops picking.

The facilitator keeps looking.

I don’t.

My mouth opens, empty.

Somewhere across the circle, the coin stops.

“Hi,” someone says anyway.

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