by Kendra Banach
I press my bare feet against the window the sun is beating down but the glass is still cold. My body heat leaves a thin layer of condensation I trace a smiley face in it then wipe my finger vigorously on the inside of my sweater. I can still feel the phantom sweat germs lingering. I’ll make a mental note to not eat with, or touch my face with, this hand. Twenty minutes later my lip itches and I use that exact finger to scratch it. I wipe my lip vigorously on the inner collar of my sweater. I do not feel clean. I’ll make a mental note that if I’m deathly ill in the following week it was my own fault.