some woman yelling on speaker about child support, and“that dumb bitch Emily.”
I turn the corner, breath on standby?—
But it’s not him.
Just some poor bastard
in front of the deodorant shelves,
holding hemorrhoid cream,
KY Jelly,
rubber gloves,
and a pack of double-stuffed Oreos.
He freezes.
I do too.
We stare at each other, two lost ghosts.
Then he grimaces. “Can I help you?”
I can’t talk with a fucking chocolate bar stuffed between my teeth.
I shake my head, the shades falling down the bridge of my nose.
He turns away, muttering under his breath,
“This city’s full’a cracked-out chicks, man.”
By the time I hit checkout,
two people are ahead of me.
I fall in line, arms numb from everything I’m carrying, slurping back spit from around the wrapped candy bar in my mouth.
I’m drooling around the edges of it,
my spit sliding down my chin.
I can’t wipe it. Nothing I can do about it.
This is who I am now.
I don’t care anymore.
Then I hear Steven Tyler,
faint, but clear:
“C’mere baby…”
The first filthy note licking the back of my neck. ThenCrazy’sdrums punch through.
I flinch.
