“why are you scared”
the chilly night breeze ripples through my nimble fingers as they begin to twitch in a rhythm.
the rain dampened the gravel roads, the rutted jaggy pavements. on the cold hard ground, the consistency of what seemed like ominous footprints that conveyed spaces of portentous secrets.
unconsciously, the categories become distinctively prominent in 6,7,8 ways.
on the corner of the streets, the classified potential delinquents – intoxication of narcotic and hallucinogen of what seemed like, magic bullets.
on the obstacle course, the constant honking. the bellowing of traffic reports and which president might change the world, make it great again. the eagerness to return to the arms of warmth or perhaps, the unrequited love of quilts. the rush to catch up with time – everything around, from fairytales to make believes instil some sort of verisimilitude.
the diners brimmed with artificial intelligence mechanics. equating introductory games as though stoichiometry – balancing equations to dictate chemistry with another. the rudimentary delusions of a curious mind. the argufy over who the bill belongs to – splitting just makes it seem all too, convivial? no inexplicable mystery of a “nubile” ideology.
She rubs her hands together, cupped it and suspire (breathe whatever) a little to give it some warmth. the focal point of aimlessness led her along the streets of lone. the glacial atmosphere of the night, broken bulbs of bokeh lights stringing from the top. seeking solace in the laughter of high school students – seeking comfort through the conformity to embrace human hoax. it boils down, still nugatory.
She tucked her hair gently behind her infected ears. to hear the consistent clangour of how life ought to be lived. She shrugs a little, still pacing her way down the empty road. Her skin turning slightly parched as the breeze continues grazing her porcelain face.
She grabs her microwavable mac&cheese. Proceeds to seek mandatory opulence in her ideal world – where teapots talk and goldilocks appeared on days she cooked porridge. her ideal world where – hansel and gretel shot the witch, and big bad wolf turned out to be the saint of the century.
“Sorry miss, you only gave me $5”
She touches the side of her dress, appearing seemingly maladroit in doing so. She bites the tip of her lip before directing her fingers to the frozen foods section. No matter how hard she fought to live in her world of ideality – reality was teapots screech and goldilocks takes everything even if it wasn’t porridge. reality was – hansel and gretel had no artillery or a sniper alone; and big bad wolf would still huff and puff.
“I got it”
He placed a ten dollar note down. Lifting his index finger, he motioned her to spin back around. The cashier chuckled – as though some soapy drama was being directed in that moment.
She squinted at him, a tad skeptical. Cautiously folding her lips, she deliberately slows down her pace in picking up – a microwavable box of mac&cheese. Feeling guarded, malice prepense.
He – bought five lemons, three limes, one bottle of coke.
She intentionally stationed herself by the exit of the mart – intending to thank him.
“Don’t worry.” He whispered forthwith, before she even appeared out of the shadows in the dim lights.
He reached into his grocery bag, tossed the yellow cabochon over.
“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
She rolled her eyes.
Her category: fate of hopeless romantics, meets at the mart.
“why are you scared”