Don't Pick At It
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Margaret spoke with her chin, walked with her hands, and packed a suitcase like a magic hat. She brought sundresses, and sweaters and weird shoes, as if trying to conjure her ticket by suggestion. She took a break to down a glass of wine, to let her heart catch up with her breath, mind like a whack-a-mole. She tried to flush a picture frame, but it just sat there, edges seeping, obstinate. She smashed it with her heel but it just gathered in the middle like ice. Tight-lipped, Margaret looked back and forth between her coat and her curtains, as if trying to decide which would offer more warmth. Finally, she left to hail a cab, and met the delivery man in the hallway, "Oh, I forgot about that, forget it. I'm not hungry." He froze a moment then continued to her door, and knocked on her empty apartment. She left him like that. She took a cab in the dark and thought of how a city is like a body, and a body can get sick and this one was throwing her up. She got to the airport and paid in too much cash. She ran inside, the coat was not enough to keep her warm, she should have brought the curtains. "Where should I go?" Margaret asked the unshaven, gawk-eyed man behind the counter. "Are you serious?"
[PWYC]Posted by Dan at February 12, 2013 7:10 PM