Teflon

She blamed her affair on the train accident. Rationalized that the impact of the collision shook
loose something wild inside of her. She blamed it on depression. On anxiety. She believed it was
her perimenopausal brain that couldn’t remember her frequent flier numbers or ATM pin. She
attributed it to an underactive thyroid, lack of sleep, and her keto diet. She found a hundred
culpable parties and excuses. She was a good person in a bad situation. She was a victim of
circumstance. A casualty of an origin story. Months later, she’d look back, indignant. Shame
sliding off of her like an egg in a nonstick pan.