The doctor is out

Every once in a while, I make the colossal mistake of reading my old diaries. I do it in a circumspect manner: I squint one eye closed, lift the lid of whatever Banker’s Box I’ve chosen with one index finger, turn my head so that I get just a glimpse of the books lined up relatively neatly in their box.

I flip through with one hand, still holding the box lid aloft with one finger of the other hand, and choose something with both eyes closed.

Then I let the lid float back into place, dislodging dust so that I have to really squinch shut both eyes.

I crack open the diary the exact same way: one eye shut; paging through delicately; holding my breath as if I’m about