Flight Simulator

 

When she hits me with the whipped cream, she shoots me into the fifth dimension.  

 

Maybe it is our scalding hot moment in the milk. Maybe it is the actual impact.  Maybe it is the whiff of nitrous oxide escaping its canister that grabs me by the hair and drags me around the corner into the next universe. 

 

Bitch is gonna pay.

 

With the sound of a zipper, I slide out of my own chest like I am sliding out of a body bag.  From above, I see a circle of clacking puppets drawing around my body as I lie bleeding. Legs akimbo.  If the dairy manager had a stick, he would have poked at me like a dead tiger.  I smile inside, because even though I’m not even conscious, he’s keeping a careful distance.  I still have blood on my mouth and he has no idea where I’ve been.

 

Pathetic.    

 

But me?  I’m beyond all that.  I’m a bubble on the air above the Mini-Mart and I can’t control my direction.  I’m being pulled backward although I’m frantically dog paddling over the city as hard as I can.  Swimming is useless.  I’m so high over the planet now I can feel my sinuses swelling in my face.  I’m afraid my head will explode.

 

I am going to die.   I wonder if it’s going to hurt.

 

I’d kill someone for a gallon of milk right now, to help me swallow this death rattle caught in my throat.

 

Then like a squirrel in the road, who should appear in the middle of my careening death spiral into space?

 

She smiles.  

 

I lash out to claw her cheek but miss her by a mile. 

 

“So listen, baby,”  she says from behind me.  “Do you want to come see my bedroom?”