Crying Under My Desk

I wish things were more socially acceptable.

I wish some things were more socially acceptable. Not like pedophilia or misogyny, but things like crawling under my office desk to cry. Small things, really, little things that seem abnormal, but are simple impulses, like sniffing when you have a runny nose.  If they were acceptable, then I wouldn't have to grab my badge, feign a smile, and walk out my building to the nearest park. I wouldn’t have to stoop the two blocks in the humid, Summer air and add to the pooling stain underneath my armpits. If I could cry under my desk, I wouldn’t have to fight for the spot on the only shady bench and be forced to silently mull over my life amongst the green oasis of urban artificiality. I wouldn’t have to solemnly let the tears roll invisibly behind my s****y pair of sunglasses.  And finally, I wouldn’t have to look back up to my building and envision what it would be like to watch an aircraft meander its way into the side of that stale, beige frame. The smoke would ascend the earth, and the smolder would warmly scent the streets. My mom would call, crying and terrified, asking if I’m alright. I’d say I was; I’d tell her I had left the building to go for a walk, pregnant in anticipation for her joyous and relaxed exhalation. She’d say something angelic, like, “oh, D. I’m just so so blessed that you’re safe. I was scared to death.” “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll go somewhere safe, and I’ll call you when I’m back home,” I’d say.  And just before I’d hang up, I’d assure her one last time that things are okay, feeling the croak in her throat unclog and her eyes glisten with liberation. Then, the call would end, and among the chaos, I’d unbutton my frosty, blue shirt and lie out in the open grass. I’d rest my sore legs and let the smolder work its way toward the park, patiently moving its way across the sky, blocking out the sun. I’d let my ears settle on the sirens and bellows of utter panic. I’d think for one moment, just a second, that all my depression and anxiety was a gift, a divine treasure that had saved me from cruel death. And in that second with my ghost-skin warming in the fading sun, the cries of terror in the street would finally put the world at ease, and I’d be at home, happy. But those luxuries are beyond me. So I wipe my nose on the sleeve of that mildly-wrinkled shirt, lift myself back up, and labor back into my building.