The Girl is bereft. She has a job that requires nothing of her but takes everything. There is nothing of her left. Her self was stolen by needy children, unnecessary faculty meetings, pushy parents, stupid colleagues, and her own disorganization.

Today was her last day for a long while. Now, she sits still in the quiet house, listening to the noises that stir in the silence. She hears her own shallow breaths coming rapidly. A neighbor is watching TV. The drone of the newscaster makes it through the walls of the tiny apartment. The air-conditioner hums. She listens. Her breathing slows. A bee slams himself repeatedly into the nearby window: Bzzz, thump, bzzz, thump. The tinkling of a wind chime accompanies the bee's suicidal dance. The air-conditioner coughs and sputters and goes quiet. Her breathing deepens. Darkness has crept into the corners of the room. She listens. Evening brings with it new sounds. Tree frogs burp. Leaves shake. A door slams. Laughter floats in from far away, barely audible. The Girl sighs.

She needs to sleep. The Girl is spent.

The Girl is depressed. She "suffers from depression." What a stupid phrase! Are there people somewhere who enjoy depression? "Hey, Mark, I've been feeling depressed lately, you wanna have a party?"

She goes on about her life. Goes to work. Goes out with friends. Makes love to The Boy. Cooks dinner. But all of it has lost its flavor somehow, as if She had an emotional cold.

The Girl has been here before. She knows she isn't sad. There is no cause. She is just blue. They offered to medicate Her, once. She was so hopped up she nearly freaked out. Anti-depressants were like speed, with none of the pleasant side effects.

So The Girl is depressed. This, too, shall pass.