Self-conscious

In fourth grade we had country reports.

The hotel's grand lobby was littered with inlaid gold-framed mirrors and crystal tiered chandeliers.

I steered my Honda down my childhood street and turned left onto the circular drive which wrapped around the tidy, seventies apartment development.

This old trope.

In high school again. Sort of wandering the halls, picturing myself putting a knife in Jimmy Rosenthal’s belly if I see him.