Anger, shock.

My lips are closed with the weight of blank expression; only I know my anger. I stare deliberately across the room, cursing under my breath. (I don't want to be this way.) I drag my eyes back to the page. I count the numbers in between paragraph breaks. I read to pass the time. Now I read for completion not comprehension. To complete another minute. To finish the last thirty. I am still waiting my turn. Warmth moves through unseen channels in my hands. My fingers curl and extend, quick like the legs of a scurrying insect I flex them in attempt to retard this building aggression. Constant movement feels a necessity. A turn of the page. A scratch to my face without an itch. This is movement, expressed alone for the sake of my mind that knows better. Feelings, they wander. On these my feelings dwell: pushing crowds on narrow streets, noisy vendors, putrid rain, aggressive beggars, yellow cab horns, side mirrors inches from my middle, an ejaculation of mud onto my legs, body odor and grease. These I add and multiply, I exponentially package them. And then my turn comes. I sign the book and drop the pen onto the page away from a hand that awaits a return. Leave me alone, I think and take my seat. I don't want your kindness.