eastside sunrise

The room is bright, morning light slanting across rows of bent metal folding chairs. Little padding. Those who show up early sit with their backs to the window. Late sleepers get the other side, and those who have been there before bring sunglasses. The coffee isn't bad, really. It is too early for me to listen, but I sit, an act of obedience by now. Familiar words drift in and out of my streaming thoughts. "...made a list of all the people we had harmed..." I fidget, consider writing a list, dig through my purse for pen and paper, disruptive. Half and half, I write. Hooks for the bathroom door. Cheddar. Canned food for the prodigal cat. "I've always been more like broken glass." A woman's voice penetrates my domestic fog. "...born without sandpaper." I consider her. An aging hooker, hair too long, still wet from an early shower, clothing too tight, too bright, sexier than she is. Sharp edges, I think. Yes. A drunk life. There's her sandpaper -- and mine. We sit in the chairs, day after day, an hour at a time. Medicine for what ails us. Sandpaper for our rough edges.