Pain Plays Dirty

Pain Plays Dirty

It’s sabotage, really, the way Pain pokes at your shoulder in therapy when you concentrate on lifting the 2 lb weight to place it inside a box, impatient as the old ex-boyfriend who insisted you used the squeegee the wrong way, wiping the windshield less efficiently than his flick of wrist did. Each time, Pain raps on your spine when you lift the box —stand up straighter, you’re doing it wrong. Its voice pinched like the ballet instructor who disliked your pirouettes. You start to think Pain’s on your side, but then a sucker punch, if you twist too quickly when you set the box down. The twinge lingers like fingernails dug into flesh, the hatch marks white as nerves when you start to do it wrong. You yearn for accolades, wait for the quiet that deafens after applause, after stage lights snuffed out, after a job finally done right.