A bomb drops on a school. I stand in line at the grocery-store with a jug of milk and a bar of hazelnut-chocolate—not a full shop, of course, but I had a few extra minutes, and everything I get now is something I don’t have to get later.

Plus, I need milk for my coffee.

A bomb drops on a school. People are running— in every direction— backwards and forwards and all around—like light scattering through a spinning diamond through a school of frightened fish through a pool-table through electrons confined in too small a box, vibrating themselves straight out of common sense by sheer force of uncertainty. A man carries a limp child— he moves at a stiff clip. A woman runs after him—her legs are shorter, she has no choice but to run to keep up—and the other child running beside her even more so. The woman holds up her hands-- she is screaming— they are covered in blood.

There is no correct direction to be moving in—people are shouting and pointing and waving each other along and warning each other back, and no one agrees. People with stretchers are going this way. People with stretchers are going that way—somewhere, anywhere, they just have to be going. A man runs with a limp child, he runs—and then someone stops him with a touch on the shoulder and points and without a word he changes direction and runs away. People are digging. People are running. People are crying. People are running. People are just standing, dazed. People are running—with limp children in their arms, everyone is running.

The lady at the register beeps off my two items with her scanner, and asks me if I want a bag. Paper or plastic?

I can only barely stop myself from saying it—“I hate you.”

I hate her for scanning my groceries. I hate her for bagging them. I hate her for handing me my receipt. I hate her for smiling at me and telling me that she hopes I have a nice day. I hate myself for smiling back.

I hate her for not taking my milk and hurling it against the wall behind her—smashing it like a melon, splattering it everywhere. I hate her for not screaming. I hate everyone in this store for not screaming. I hate us all for standing quietly in line. For shuffling slowly and calmly along. Waiting our turn. Waiting. Waiting. I hate us for waiting.

A bomb drops on a school. I hate everyone around me, I hate them with bile.

Children are running. Mothers are running with their children. Pushing them along. Dragging them along. Waiting for a man to come and limp their lift bodies and run.

I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them— I hate them like taking wet sand from the underside of a shoe and stuffing it in clumps under somebody’s eyelid, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.

And also, here I am. I am walking slowly and calmly back out across the parking-lot to my car. I am sitting in the driver’s-seat—and even all alone, now, parked a good ways away from everyone else, and with the windows rolled up, too, I am still not screaming—not even just for myself. Here I am.

I need milk for my coffee. The bitterness. The acidity. Otherwise, it will burn my throat on the way down. It will burn my stomach when it gets there. It will burn my heart. I get bad heartburn without milk in my coffee.