Mini-Mart Doom

Sunshine is pouring through my window, but I yank it shut.

You would never know this, but behind the bathroom mirror lie my tools.  And this exacting work demands all my concentration. Unfolding the clippers carefully, I follow that single crooked varicose vein that leads from my inner thigh all the way down to my pulsing, pink, beautiful toe.

Cold precision snip.

It’s perfect.

I want to cut further. I want to cut deep enough that I’ll feel this tomorrow with every step. But I am so practiced in the art of self-restraint.

My toenails are caught by the breeze as they fall from my toes. I watch them fly like tiny spider babies thumbing a ride out of town.  Piling up like snow over the newspapers in my driveway, and on the backs of dogs sleeping on my porch, it’s a sign that new season has begun.

I choose my black boots to go with my black suede jacket. They look classic against the snow as I march to my Mini-Mart Doom.

When I enter that establishment, I am a long-dead pirate who’s sailed into the public wading pool by accident. There are no humans here. They are puppets, and their slack little mouths fall open if a string isn’t there to hold them up. Their teeth clack together and they have no idea what to say.

“Hello, Miss!”

The produce manager turns toward me with a dripping cucumber in each hand.

“Put those down! How the fuck dare you?!” I hiss at him.

Pervert. You’ve known men like him. He shakes his head and goes back to building his little cucumber house of cards. Like he didn’t mean it that way. But I know what was said, and I’m on to that shit.