yesterday, my stockings made a lovely ripping sound as i stuck my hands inside the small run just above my knee and yanked it wide open, leaving tiny threads of nylon to glisten across the now-gaping hole over my exposed leg.  “wow,” i said, as i dug my fingers in again and ripped another hole just over my kneecap.  “i’ve never done that before.”
he smiled.  “you’re definitely punk-rock now.”

today, in the waiting room, listening to ratchets and mechanisms and dot-matrix printers oil-change gizmos grease mechanics laughing at mechanical jokes, i slouched low in the vinyl chair and nearly fell asleep smelling the grey fingers of pipe smoke that still clung to the threads of my coat.