Laughter

I hate this fake laugh of mine, the way it bubbles and bursts out of my mouth. It pops, bubblegum sweet against my ears. Most of all, I hate how easily it comes.

It’s that awkward space between queasiness and nausea that I’m feeling so often, the way you stuff yourself just a bit too full. You can walk around in the sun with your stomach just barely pressing up against your esophagus. A thin sheen of sweat builds with the mildest urge to vomit.

Perhaps it’s abetted by where I am, the sunny atrium of our athletic center. In the background, though really it’s right next to me, a lone girl is practicing in the basketball court. It’s such a brightly lit space, the glass ceiling funnels the sun into jagged triangles against the matte tile and shining court planks, and maybe it’s that girl’s activity that’s driving this slow churning in my stomach. I feel I should move faster, if only to catch up to the people in front of me. They’ve been slowly towing away, my own feet plodding along to my stomach’s pulse.

It’s a pleasant day, tinging on uncomfortable in fact, the heat at that rare point of warm but not quite sweating. A few degrees hotter, a hair more humid, and it could be miserable, but for now, in the shade and inside, it’s quite nice, and maybe that’s why I’m so loathe to catch up.