Jennifer looks at the clock. It is 11:14. People are answering questions in a disinterested manner. She thinks about eating lunch. Jennifer feels like a slimy alien. She touches her face. She touches her hair. Face again. Someone says, "When you speak German, even when you say 'I love you' you sound violent." Someone says something else. Jennifer thinks of drinking Killian's beer in a cold glass. She thinks of wi-fi. Jennifer thinks of violent fantasies, then sexual fantasies. She thinks about writing a poem. She has coffee in her locker. She knows because she put it there this morning. She is visualizing the coffee. She starts humming a song called ‘Bros’. She remembers a video she watched recently of a man with a beard on a pink couch playing an acoustic guitar. She remembers the man looking really passionate, like he was either crying or about to cry. "Who the fuck is slamming," she thinks with no precursor. Jennifer feels a strong urge to soak herself in barbequed tempeh. "Am I silently freaking out," she thinks. Jennifer slouches.

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