The story below is a work of fiction.
Visiting her relatives is her secondmost hated event. They stumble over to her with their ethnic hair and diabetic knees. Their collective scent isn’t unpleasant but borderline inhuman; it triggers her disgust reflex. She leaves when she wants to.
Trips to the grocery store are degrees worse, by numbers: too many people hunch over their shopping carts like ersatz Adonises bowing under the weight of nothing or discontinued favorites. The suffering bastards—not the people, the carts, those true and silent heroes—press back against a meaningless and lazy weight. She endures strolling through that gulag because science and industry haven’t gifted men the power to grow Corn Flakes in their apartments.
2 Comments
There has been a void of micro-fiction in my life, indeed.
More stories inbound!