As I pick through a Bach prelude, my hands feel like spiders crawling over cracked pavement.
I pry the lid off the banana walnut scented candle and breathe.
One night is a rough night, anxiety a rising flood in my skull.
We are docile and subdued on the line through the metal detectors. A guard is curt to an old woman who isn't sure if she's at the correct location.
His thoughts are oil in a frying pan and a crackle of buzzwords.
The room where potential jurors wait is full of sunlight, warmth, and murals displayed well above eye level, to no one's loss. The clerk splits our heads open with a whining microphone. From time to time, we listen to lists of names, and people shuffle out. Shoes squeak, and newspapers rustle. One man falls asleep. His snores sound like a bumblebee trapped in a bottle.
In an unlit hallway, they've set up tables with cookies, chips, and sandwiches of uncertain freshness.