22. Dannica
DANNICA
LOCAL WOMAN PLACES EMOTIONAL DAMAGE INSIDE MENUS
I finish my little write-up about meeting Teddy, about trying to figure out who he is, and about the ridiculous shit Shelly, Quadri, and Mary pulled to shove us together like they were directing a small-town romance movie.
As I read it over, I linger on the parts where he appears.
The way I described him. The way I described how I felt.
My chest tightens a little, because it is all there, whether I meant to put it there or not.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, like they might suddenly decide to stage a full-blown rebellion.
I flex them once, then again, but the tension doesn’t leave.
I’d dragged each sentence out of my brain, kicking and screaming, but now that it’s done, that almost feels like the easy part.
Letting it exist outside of me is something else entirely.
I read the last line again, my pulse picking up for no good reason. Or maybe for a very obvious one. This is not just a story. It’s how I saw him, how I noticed him, how I kept noticing him even when I told myself not to. My stomach twists as I hit print.
The machine hums to life, loud in the quiet of the house. I’m suddenly acutely aware of every sound. The soft whir of the printer. The faint ticking of the clock on the wall. My heartbeat, a little too fast, like it’s trying to keep up with something I haven’t admitted to yet.
My house actually has a printer, which somehow makes the fact that the girls went to the print/custom frame/office/wire transfer/money order/custom pet tag store even funnier. I let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh, but it fades quickly as the first page slides out.
I reach for it before it’s fully done, my fingers brushing warm paper. I stack the pages together, tapping them against the counter to straighten them even though they’re already aligned. It gives my hands something to do.
This is fine. It’s just words. Just paper.
Except it’s not.
My shoulders have crept up without me noticing, and there’s a low, restless energy sitting just under my skin that I can’t quite shake.
With the printed pages in hand, I step outside.
Cool air hits my face, sharp enough to make me inhale a little deeper, like it’s trying to talk me out of this.
Like it knows I’m about to do something I can’t undo.
I pause on the doorstep a second longer than I need to, looking down at the pages. If people read this, they will know.
That thought settles in heavier than I expect.
Not just that I wrote something, but what I chose to put on the page.
It’s all my thoughts, all the things I notice.
The way I turn moments over in my head until they mean more than they probably should.
It’s all there now, laid out in plain text. There’s nowhere to hide in it.
Nerves, sharp and insistent, twist low in my stomach. But underneath that, something steadier hums. Something quieter. Pride, maybe. Or relief.
Because for once, I didn’t stop myself halfway through. I didn’t overthink it into silence or decide it wasn’t good enough before anyone else had the chance to. I finished it. I printed it. And now I’m about to let other people see it.
My fingers curl around the paper, like I might fold it back in on itself and tuck it somewhere safe where no one else can touch it.
Where no one else can have an opinion. Because once it’s out there, it’s not just mine anymore.
They’ll read it and decide what it’s worth.
They’ll decide what I’m worth. My breath catches at that, just for a second.
I force it out slowly, pressing the pages flat as if I can smooth out the doubt along with them. Then I force my feet to move. Because standing here isn’t going to make this any easier.
The grocery store comes into view, exactly the same as it always has been. Same faded sign. Same automatic doors that hesitate like they’re considering whether I’m worth the effort before letting me in. I have walked this path approximately one thousand times without incident.
Today, however, I appear to be approaching it like someone about to make a life-altering decision. Which, to be clear, I am not. I am simply carrying several sheets of paper. Several sheets of paper that contain my thoughts. My actual thoughts. Printed. For other people to read.
Oh, God.
My steps slow without permission. My body has quietly decided we are not emotionally equipped for this and is attempting a tactical retreat. I tighten my grip on the pages, then loosen it again, because crushing them to death will not solve the problem. Unfortunately.
It shouldn’t feel like this. It’s just a piece of paper with a few paragraphs. Just my inner world, neatly formatted and ready for public consumption like some sort of emotional sampler platter. I press my lips together and exhale through my nose.
This was a mistake.
Correction. This was a bold creative choice that I am now regretting in real time.
Because it’s not just paper. It’s me.
Not in a dramatic, tragic-heroine way. Just in all the smaller, more embarrassing ways. The way I think, the things I notice. The fact that I apparently cannot experience a single moment without turning it into some kind of reflective essay.
And now anyone can read it, anyone can have an opinion, and I am absolutely not prepared for that.
My pulse picks up as I get closer, which feels unnecessary given that I’m not being chased. My breathing goes slightly off rhythm, like I’ve forgotten how lungs work under pressure.
The community board comes into view.
It’s packed. Flyers layered over each other in a chaotic collage of lost pets, yard sales, babysitting services, and at least one aggressively cheerful bake sale that seems to have its life together in a way I do not. Most of these will be ignored.
Okay. This is actually comforting.
Because it suggests a very real possibility that I can put this up—technically, be brave—and still remain completely unnoticed.
It’s the ideal compromise. I shift my weight, scanning the board like I’m looking for the perfect level of invisibility.
Somewhere that says I tried but not please read this and perceive me.
Because once it’s up there, that’s it. No more editing.
No hovering nearby to explain what I meant.
No quietly removing it when the panic sets in.
I stare at the board longer than necessary, caught between two fears I can’t quite rank.
Am I afraid of being seen? Or am I afraid that no one will notice at all? I’m honestly not sure which is worse.
All right, Dannica. Once you’re done here and at the diner, you can reward yourself with a bottle of tequila. Oh, right. No you can’t, because you have a date tonight.
My stomach signs up for the summer Olympics—gymnastics, specifically—and I reach for a pin.
“Fucking damn it.” It slides straight out of my trembling fingers. I bend to pick it up and drop it again. This happens three times before I finally get the little bugger pinched between my fingers and stab it into the paper.
I slip behind the counter at the diner like nothing monumental has just occurred in the last ten minutes. Like I have not publicly exposed my inner thoughts to the entire town via corkboard. Completely normal. Completely fine. Thriving, actually.
I look down at the remaining copies in my hand.
Right. Because apparently I haven’t suffered enough.
My gaze drifts to the booths. Each table is neatly set, menus stacked innocently at the edge, completely unaware of what’s about to happen to them.
This is a terrible idea. This is also, unfortunately, a very good idea.
“As if it’s part of the special,” I mutter under my breath, because framing it that way makes it sound intentional. Professional. Like I’m not about to quietly distribute my personal thoughts across every table in the diner.
I grab the first menu and slide a copy inside, tucking it neatly between the pages like it belongs there, as if customers regularly expect a side of emotional introspection with their lunch.
I close the menu and set it back down. There. Done. No one saw that.
I pick up the next one. And the next. And the next.
By the third table, my movements have become suspiciously efficient, like I’m trying to outrun my own decision-making.
In, tuck, close, move on. Do not think.
Thinking is the enemy.
By the fifth, I’m fully committed. By the seventh, I’m questioning every life choice that led me to this exact moment, because now it’s not just one copy. Now it’s all of them.
Every booth, every table, every unsuspecting customer who just wanted breakfast and is now going to accidentally read my inner monologue while deciding between eggs and pancakes.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I pause at the last table, holding the final menu open a second longer than necessary.
Breathe, Dannica. This is completely fine.
I slide the pages in and shut it with a soft thud that feels far too final. There’s no undoing this without committing a series of highly suspicious menu thefts.
I stand and look out over the diner like I’ve just set a trap and am waiting to see who walks into it. Or more accurately, who sits down and casually flips to page three and gets an unexpected deep dive into my psyche.
I press my lips together and decide I’ll stand by this decision.
I carry on with my work, pulling out the requisition forms and settling into the familiar rhythm of numbers, stock levels, and things that make sense. Things that stay where you put them. Things that do not invite strangers to form opinions about your inner world.
I write, check, tally, repeat. Like I haven’t just distributed my thoughts across every table in the diner. Like at any moment someone isn’t going to open a menu and accidentally learn far more about me than they ever intended.