empty cherry in the opera
The department bought pizza for everyone and called it Luncheon Thank You. Unfortunately, pizza and other heavy, greasy foods do not sit well with me in the middle of the day, and I was really hankering for some greens and veggies, beans. What my body needed.
Inquisition-like, two people had already asked me if I’d gotten some pizza. Moral responsibility, you know, even if it makes me ill. I knew if I came through the hallway with a plate of salad I was going to get the freak-blanket, so I escaped to the cafeteria for a quickie.
As usual, because I like to load my salads with stuff, two people hovered over and behind me in loud silence at the salad counter, and as I turned and said, Are you waiting for me? I dripped white salad dressing into the orange.
With three times the necessary plasticware in hand, I sat down. Nothing to read, just a blank table, too many people in scrubs and suits, and a soap opera playing across the room. Some configuration of purgatory. The air was warm and moist.
A table of female scrubs sat in front of me. One of them chronically tossed her eyes at mine.
One of my carrots was big and coated in dressing, cheese, and a raisin. I knew the fork wouldn't go in smoothly so I went for it with my thumb and middle finger—slip—it landed back in the green and the dressed cheese on my pants. I wiped a napkin at the oily spots, then picked up my fork—slip—out of my fingers and across the table, bouncing. What the hell was wrong with me.
Chronic Scrub had her eyes on me. I smiled because I imagined it was a comical sight. She stared blankly.
O god, I thought, She’s not human. Cardboard rather. How sad and drab for the living, the few.
Transmission from Mt. Olympus: today is not today, and 90% of the dolls have sticks in their eyes, walking same-paced down hallways. This is a travesty. This is a gross vectoring from the cherry's pit. Lost electrons, this is it.
She stared blankly. I stifled a laugh, barely, and sat there, distorted mouth full of fantasy and laughing.
Were my final hinge were loosed, I’d have acted on the scenes going on in my head right then. I’d have sat there biting at my arm, gnawing happily, dog-grin across my face, low growls. Then, while still in the act, I’d turn in slo-mo and look her in the blanks of her eyes to see if I’d filled them in any. With anything.
Laughter could no longer be stifled. I put on my own freak-blanket, purple like a cackling street lunatic. I eat what I want.
Inquisition-like, two people had already asked me if I’d gotten some pizza. Moral responsibility, you know, even if it makes me ill. I knew if I came through the hallway with a plate of salad I was going to get the freak-blanket, so I escaped to the cafeteria for a quickie.
As usual, because I like to load my salads with stuff, two people hovered over and behind me in loud silence at the salad counter, and as I turned and said, Are you waiting for me? I dripped white salad dressing into the orange.
With three times the necessary plasticware in hand, I sat down. Nothing to read, just a blank table, too many people in scrubs and suits, and a soap opera playing across the room. Some configuration of purgatory. The air was warm and moist.
A table of female scrubs sat in front of me. One of them chronically tossed her eyes at mine.
One of my carrots was big and coated in dressing, cheese, and a raisin. I knew the fork wouldn't go in smoothly so I went for it with my thumb and middle finger—slip—it landed back in the green and the dressed cheese on my pants. I wiped a napkin at the oily spots, then picked up my fork—slip—out of my fingers and across the table, bouncing. What the hell was wrong with me.
Chronic Scrub had her eyes on me. I smiled because I imagined it was a comical sight. She stared blankly.
O god, I thought, She’s not human. Cardboard rather. How sad and drab for the living, the few.
Transmission from Mt. Olympus: today is not today, and 90% of the dolls have sticks in their eyes, walking same-paced down hallways. This is a travesty. This is a gross vectoring from the cherry's pit. Lost electrons, this is it.
She stared blankly. I stifled a laugh, barely, and sat there, distorted mouth full of fantasy and laughing.
Were my final hinge were loosed, I’d have acted on the scenes going on in my head right then. I’d have sat there biting at my arm, gnawing happily, dog-grin across my face, low growls. Then, while still in the act, I’d turn in slo-mo and look her in the blanks of her eyes to see if I’d filled them in any. With anything.
Laughter could no longer be stifled. I put on my own freak-blanket, purple like a cackling street lunatic. I eat what I want.
5 Comments:
Chow down sista!
so, what was on the menu?
on the menu was the numbed faction of the human race. quantity was high; variation, little. i chowed down. like the sista i've been called.
My body NEEDS pizza.
That scrub lady should bypass the whole "living" phase and skip right to the morgue.
tell it like it is, glomgold. funny and ouch (on her behalf).
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