Then I See Her.

 The only thing that stands between me and my milk now is the dairy manager who is on his knees, stocking up the whipped cream canisters he hasn’t been sucking on in the back.

“Ma’am,” he nods in my direction.  A fleck of cream still sticks to his beard.

My eyes roll back in your head.  I try to control it.  My teeth are grinding now.

“I do not need help.  Of any kind.  Especially.  From.  You.”

I am a mule, and I want to kick him in the head and watch his teeth fly out. 

I want to crush those white, dairy-loving teeth and see their dust end up on a beach in a Cape Town. 

Or in the hoof of a Nepalese llama. 

Or on the tongue of a thirsty Bedouin who forgot to keep his mouth shut when the wind kicked up.

Then I see her.