Once we are inside and the door is locked behind us, we take off our masks and set them on the kitchen table. We exhale. Loudly. We trumpet the air of our daily experiences out of our bodies and into the atmosphere. We peel off our costumes. Struggle to step out. Sticky, constricting. And hang them over the shower curtain rod. To dry.
We move along familiar paths. In the kitchen from refrigerator to stove to cupboards. To the living room, the couch, the comforting glow of the television.
We keep the lights off. Sink under blankets, into our stupor.
Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post: Flee.