Business As Usual
by Erika Veurink
I’m thinking about Mick Jagger. He was a god sent to teach us what it means to be irresistible. Being attracted to him feels universal, like religion. I don’t give a shit about The Rolling Stones.
Seeing my best friend on video chat makes me so sad. I prefer to walk when I talk to her so I can be distracted by how long it's been since we sat on her sofa together.
There was a summer, when I was nine or ten, where I balanced a book on my head constantly. It was a hardcover Bible. It made me feel like I was preparing for a life where the skill would serve me—life as a countess or a trapeze artist.
(a) Another summer, I pressed flowers. But I forgot about them and they eroded the dictionary pages. No one noticed, as long as they stayed out of the X-section.
I don’t miss traveling. I’ve had dreams in these last few weeks that feel more memorable than vacations I’ve been on. Dreams are never disappointing. There is no space for expectations.
Eating raw carrots feels like an active step toward health. Same with doing yoga poses while I listen to my sister on the phone. I’m comfortable with the illusion health is something I can earn.
I found a note in my journal from two years ago written next to a to-do list. It asked, “Are there any lines I should be crossing?”
I’ve started to lean my head out of the window to listen to the grocery store workers unload in the morning. Their conversations are so normal. George complains daily about his wife’s inability to remember his work schedule. I hope she never stops forgetting.
Erika Veurink is a writer living in Brooklyn by way of Iowa. She is receiving her MFA from Bennington College. Her work has appeared in Entropy, Ghost City Press, Hobart, Midwest Review, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere.
