I have gas, and being a petty creature, I want to fart on your grave.
I buy an $8 coffee from the strip-mall coffee shop and grab a seat outdoors, the lone patron of the sidewalk cafe.
My eyes close behind oversized sunglasses, and I let my mind drift to:
My land, hard rain, deep hole, heavy load Shoulders aching, neck cramped Sobs of exertion, the meaty thud of each shovel-full Then showered, sharply accessorized, signing the deed to the strip-mall man taking the check, the Tarmac...
It was a good one as far as boo-boos went; a gnarly, ragged-edge circle with the center scraped dirty by the road, and it earned me a trip to the kitchen, squalling hopping foot-to-foot No, no, no, it's hurts it hurts, it huuurrts
Grams, a pro at wrangling little girls held my arm over the sink, inciting my hysteria by pulling out the brown bottle of peroxide
Look away, she said. It won't hurt so bad if you don't look...