Floated is not the right word. Not rocketed. Sprang is not right either because we think of that as employing the feet. I was in a chair at the end of a conference table, the mediator on one side, the Someone on the other. The Someone and his overstuffed tote bag laying behind his chair blocked access to the door. The anger came on like a sickness, like a posion filling my body. I became light-headed with it. The lightness blinding me until all I saw was white, and the weightlessness spread into my body. A giant parade balloon. A ridiculous caricature. La Furiousa, the Ex-Wife. I did not stand. I levitated. Lifted off. Stretched the tethers that held me to the ground to their breaking point, then snapped free with a pop. "I have to get out of here," is what I think I said. By then I'd already risen to the ceiling, pried open the door, and sailed down the hallway away from him.
