I'm not usually one to take my shirt off for people, but when the person telling me to strip has a gun on her hip and a title on her name? I only hesitate a moment.
At least I can be proud of that moment.
We are both workers, she and I, born in the same complex. Obviously the authority of my title holds nothing against hers though. I’ve definitely not been issued a gun.
Her face is hard, like the grey stone walls around us are hard. Still, I can’t imagine she’s much older than me. None of us get much older than me without losing something important. An eye, a hand, a piece of our soul.
I wonder what she’ll do when she gets off work tonight. Will she lean on her fridge door while rummaging for something to munch? Maybe she’ll pop a lite beer, put her feet up, watch a re-run while winding down. Maybe she’ll head straight to bed. Will someone be waiting for her there?
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Her eyes scan lazy over my pale breasts, her voice monotone. “Height?”
She looks me up and down, doing her own calculations. I have no idea what she writes on her form. The questions never end.
Until they do.
The last one makes me smile.
“Are you suicidal?”
I smile because a truly suicidal person would never say yes. We all know this, right?
She scrutinizes my face, my answer, my crime. She calculates again. But then she just shrugs, throws me my shirt. She’s got a pale ale at home that’s more important than I am.
“Put her in the tank with the rest,” she says, and they push me forward.
Or perhaps I’m moving backwards.
At this point, I can’t tell.
That's the latest story, morning glory. Let me know what you think about this or anything else you want to rant/share. Have a lovely week, lovelies, and here's a little magic from Cat Power's new album:
*Update: I'm linking with the Dude Write flash-fic competition this week, so check out this and other bloggers' work here.