GJ

Grand Jury afternoons resemble seeing the menfolk off to the station. They've gone to town or they've gone to war; either way, they'll return beat. Their softened sharp suits will show their effort on behalf of the Law. We envy the jury these rounds of question-and-answer, which we'll never hear, for we aren't allowed in the Grand Jury room.

Occasionally we'll accompany them to the door, carrying boxes of exhibits. In the elevator they might talk of something unrelated. They might fall into their familiar banter, volleying lines in close succession. They might joke that we sure did choose the strongest people, didn't we, all girls. They might not notice us at all.

When we arrive, we set down our loads, and linger, hoping they'll ask us to fetch one more thing. But the Chief says, "You kids run along," dismissing us.

Then we return to the office, which has the air of a child home alone. Our brains are sieves, sifting the grains of our attention. We feed each other's anxiousness, comparing our pilgrim's progress against the clock's benchmarks. We analyze our unfocused state, this strange advent and expectation.