It could be worse. We all know it could be worse. In an age of orange peels stretched across your face as an impromptu mask and hair-string threads of temper so taut you can strum their rage, it could be worse. It could be worse. Tchaikovsky could be alive. Which would mean we, too, lived with Tchaikovsky and are just as likely to die from the plague as he. ‘It could be worse,’ I mumble to myself, stuck in traffic until my pupils glow with the gleam of taillights, and the only perfume I wear is the musk of sweat and exhaust. But, still. It could be worse. I could have crashed by now. I could have crashed a hundred million times before, my bones a husk of steel and wiring my teeth winking with rearview mirror shards that say ‘objects may be closer than they appear’ my last memory the screech of tires, or maybe strings? I’d never know. It could be worse. In the way that hazelnut brownies are better than no brownies at all, maybe it doesn’t matter when the brownies have too many nuts, and you can feel the cold sweat gathering on your brow that’ll soak your sheets tonight as you eat them, like the ringing in your ears when a violinist strains for a note just a little bit too high. But, hey. It could be worse. There could be no brownies and no music at all. I wanted to write about joy but being ok is close enough.
