Definitely a more challenging roll this time:
Water under the bridge
Juliana frowned and wrapped herself tighter in the afghan. There was nothing good on TV – reruns of The Andy Griffith Show, NCIS, This Old House, a documentary about the pyramids, something about reducing your carbon footprint. She wasn’t sick exactly, but it was easier to fib about having the flu than explain the real problem to her boss. Some days she just couldn’t go out. Six months of therapy hadn’t turned her phobias into water under the bridge. No, they still nipped at her heels, following her like a sinister shadow. The remains of last night’s dinner sat on the coffee table, stray bits of rice, wooden chopsticks, and two soggy cartons from China Moon. Their sesame chicken was only so-so, but they delivered. Next to the mess was an orange gerbera daisy in a green ceramic pot, a present from her little sister, Kate. Juliana envied Kate; she was so fearless. She didn’t freak out during lightning storms. She rode public busses and never worried about germs. She lived in a high-rise—an efficiency apartment on the 17th floor!—and rode in the elevator every day. Kate sat on her balcony, for God’s sake, sipping on Chardonnay and enjoying the view from a height that would have made Juliana break out in hives. Dr. Sillman kept suggesting medication, and Juliana kept coming up with excuses not to take it. But was this the way she wanted to spend her life? Lying to her boss, flipping through the channels, eating bad sesame chicken, and staring at that annoying daisy?
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