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White, red, white, red. I'm fighting for my life here, at the counter of the brand new Sonic's that replaced my favorite greenbelt. I'm shadowboxing these lights in my head. I keep my forearms on the cool linoleum that's half a foot too tall for me to soothe my clumsy cuts and burns. The colored rays filter through the decor and I feel like a squatter in a home with torn up blinds casting shadows on the wall. White clouds from the kitchen brush my ears. They follow me out into the December night as I approach a car that's having trouble with their order. I knew the driver was a tall order as soon as she walked me back to the register. A cankly bottle blonde in a red pantsuit, she balked when I said I couldn't break a hundred. She handed me two grants and gave me a wink so protracted I blushed while knowing it was a load of applesauce. She sticks her hands in her pockets, pouts at my stone face, asks me if I like working nights while I hand her change. I tell her it's better than suicide. She pulls a crumpled hamilton out, says she forgot about it. Asks for one of the grants back. I pull out my smartphone and ask for her number. She tells me she has shoes older than me but she'd like to try me on. My staring at my held-up phone says more than my lips ever could. She stalks back into her car. Yellow, white, red. I write her info on a greasy sticky note and slap it on the counter for the day manager, and send her picture to the local precinct. I hesitate before sending along her plate number, not out of misguided camaraderie, but because maybe that's her road outta suicide. Maybe I've done my due diligence. I'm gay, I think. Sometimes it pays. But not now, not really. I forget the whole thing before my head hits the pillow. Lawrence Gilchrist fucked around with this message at 07:04 on Dec 8, 2016
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Dec 8, 2016 06:57
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| # ¿ May 3, 2024 05:47 |
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