The Critic

The thing about Sarah is she’s always right, which makes her impossible to ignore and dangerous to keep around. Throughout my life, she’s appeared and receded like the tide, but always finds her way back to me. She was everything my parents wanted me to be, everything I wanted to be. A perfectionist who never seemed to have her own problems.

I lost my job in January. I didn’t bring in enough clients to the firm, which was Malcolm’s euphemism for not showing enough skin. Sarah moved in indefinitely for support. Some days I barely noticed her. Other days, she was everywhere, in every room, part of every decision – every doubt about where I’d missed a checkpoint in my life.

I sat near the front of the bus with Sarah. It was my first job interview since being sacked, the first time I’d left the flat other than the odd trip to IGA for baked beans and canned tuna. Being this close to people again, every breath required effort. Someone’s headphones leaked tinny pop music, each beat matching my fluttering pulse. I shuffled over to the seat closest to the window, letting a heavily pregnant lady sit beside me. The electric bus accelerated, and she gripped the pole with one hand, clutching her belly with the other. I envied her certainty, knowing exactly what mattered. I reached into my bag for my phone, my fingers instinctively opened the app before I realised what was happening.

“Grace, what are you doing?” Sarah asked.

I swiped on the screen. “What?”

“You have a job interview in twenty minutes. You should be thinking about interview questions.”