Violet

Violet didn’t want to be found, didn’t want to be seen, and didn’t want to be walked in on. Really, she didn’t want to pay for the two forks she was slipping into her coat pocket in the bathroom of the diner. She didn’t need them, she didn’t really want them—in fact, five minutes later they would be stuck headfirst into the lawn of a man who saw her out of the corner of his eye. All the same, he didn’t bother turning around or turning the TV dial for a moment to open the door and walk in on her private purpose. But there was something about the way they felt in her pocket, cold and real against her thighs as she left the diner coolly and quickly, her scarlet scarf tied at the base of her neck and billowing behind her like car exhaust. She needed them as much as they needed her. They needed her to carry them out into somewhere different, anything but the drone of mildew-ridden drawer to chapped, bigoted mouth heaving eggs awakened from their powdered state and given a second, dreadful life. She needed them to remind her that sometimes, you have to trust life to pluck you out of a drawer and carry you somewhere different, to dump you headfirst into dirt sprayed with too much DDT because the smell of your nostrils burning is better than the smell of air when you don’t care whether you keep breathing it or not.

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