TW: Gun Violence.
Brunette sees him coming through the door and knows exactly what is going to happen. She sees the intent on his face before he calls Blond a “Thieving whore.” Before he tries to pull her off the stool by her straw-colored hair where she sits eating her eggs and fries.
Brunette feels the electricity; the coffee-and-newspaper vibe has changed: superstrings are vibrating, a chain reaction which started at Genesis and will continue through Revelations, all of those strings wiggling and extending to touch—think Creation of Adam—the powder-burned index finger of a talcum God.
Blond is tapping the embossed 57 on her wrist and it’s really starting to come now, sliding down the neck inside the bottle, the sweet and tangy condiment bubbling out the lip. It’s a race: 57 vs 40 Caliber. She has a cigarette dangling from her lips despite the passive aggressive comments she’s been getting from Charlotte, the only waitress working the floor at this hour.
Brunette would wave Charlotte down, to tell her to call the police, or to have her shoot daggers at the man with her late-night waitress try-me-glare, but there isn’t time; a number is up.
The man has yellow teeth and yellow eyes and yellow skin—probably smells yellow. Brunette knows him; or, she knows men like him: a bitch of a man: weak: yellow: : : :
Charlotte’s annoyed with Blonde for smoking inside the diner, but only because she wants a cigarette, too. At least she’s wearing the comfortable shoes she bought last weekend, a purchase made knowing she’d have an extra day’s tips. She wasn’t supposed to be working tonight, but she didn’t have anything better to do, and now she has a little treat: comfort.
Then, she sees Brunette’s face. But there isn’t enough time for connections. There are too many possibilities: she wants the bill, or to know where the restroom is, jam for her toast, to complain about a hair in her oats, or…
Blond’s mascara is thick, spider legs caked in chocolate cake. Lipstick on her smoke, bubblegum-pink, over-chewed. She’s pretty but worn.
The yellow man is wearing tighty-whities1. Brunette sees them as he lifts his shirt to pull his gun. Sees his belly fur. His Daffy Duck tattoo. She sees a snapshot of a man who puts on underwear and watches Looney-Tunes. Eats Cocoa Puffs. Comments on nostalgia posts on Facebook: “Rub some dirt on it!”
Brunette is standing. A voice within her is screaming to Sit the fuck back down. Don’t get involved!
Charlotte can’t figure out why Brunette looks so intense. She sees a gun. She doesn’t understand the shout in Brunette’s eyes. She sees a gun. Maybe she dropped her spoon? She sees a gun. Maybe she’s uncomfortable? SHE SEES A GUN!
Blond is tapping on the 57; the red is coming. The yellow man is pointing the gun at the back of Blond’s head.
Tap, tap, tap.
The red is coming.
Click.
The gun jams.
Brunette runs at the yellow man.
Chickchack. The gun is unjammed.
He fires at Brunette. Pop, pop.
Misses.
Brunette is frozen, contemplating her previous decision, considering her options, checking for holes in her breasts and stomach, thinking about her daughter at home in Minneapolis and her kid’s deadbeat but charming father in Mississippi. She thinks all of this in 1 second or ten years as her gaze lingers on the comfortable shoe sitting beneath a table a billion miles away from Charlotte’s ruptured body. Time means nothing here. She sees her grandma’s garden on Easter, a blue pastel egg sitting near the roses. She hears a train bell. Smells brownies.
~
~
~
—time snaps back like a rubber band. Brunette picks up a steak knife and lunges at the yellow man.
The red is really starting to come now, sliding down his neck and out from between his lips. He gurgles. Rub some dirt on it, bitch.
Brunette drops the knife and covers her face.
Blond is standing over the yellow red man, smiling. Bends down, says,
“Frank is my cat. You killing me wouldn’t have changed a goddamn thing. He’s my fucking cat.”
Blond picks up a fry from her plate and dips it into the red.
Footnote:
Did you laugh at this Hanna?
Who dis? More please. Super interesting glyph work and that voice was wicked snippy. One of my new faves of yours.
Damn. This reads this like a flip book of Polaroids found in a seedy motel. I love it!