Whiskey Fish Road
I dislike this one.
The banal grey interior stands in contrast to her visage, like a dull portrait accented with neon lights blaring around the edges. Cracked pink lip fail to match the thin, pale crimson band that peaks out from over a pair of tattered grey sweatpants. The atmosphere in the bank show signs of a broken air conditioner, and beads of sweat fall down her thighs, silently coalescing with their grey covering. Blue sequence is noticeable from beneath a white tank top stained with the remains of a peanut butter sandwich. A thick, velvet rope secures her place in the line, keeping her stout frame uncomfortably close to those around her. A tiny, beaded bag remains suspended from her bare shoulder, her miniature office. Tiny blue nervous pills, crumpled PTA papers, assorted crayons from different restaurants, dollar bills. A blue dot drops into a hand worn with calluses because the poles aren’t greased well, which then moves quickly and silently up to her mouth. She scratches her nose in an unassuming way before moving her hand back to cover an unsightly tear in the hip of her sweatpants from when she rushed to drop her daughter off at school and became entangled in the door. Her nails make it difficult to sign the bank slip, clicking against the pen noisily as she pen “Samantha Adams” neatly. A solitary, saline ridden drop forms at the corner of her eye at the realization her name represents nothing more than a moniker she bears during the daytime. Faux gold charms jingle upon her wrist while she writes, the letters “S A M M Y” engraved upon them. Her daughter’s pet name; her stage name. The heat in the bank exponentially magnifies with the pressure of a dozen gazes, but Samantha moves quickly. A tiny plastic toy watch blinks 12:00, over and over in neon blue upon her wrist. There was never enough time.
The banal grey interior stands in contrast to her visage, like a dull portrait accented with neon lights blaring around the edges. Cracked pink lip fail to match the thin, pale crimson band that peaks out from over a pair of tattered grey sweatpants. The atmosphere in the bank show signs of a broken air conditioner, and beads of sweat fall down her thighs, silently coalescing with their grey covering. Blue sequence is noticeable from beneath a white tank top stained with the remains of a peanut butter sandwich. A thick, velvet rope secures her place in the line, keeping her stout frame uncomfortably close to those around her. A tiny, beaded bag remains suspended from her bare shoulder, her miniature office. Tiny blue nervous pills, crumpled PTA papers, assorted crayons from different restaurants, dollar bills. A blue dot drops into a hand worn with calluses because the poles aren’t greased well, which then moves quickly and silently up to her mouth. She scratches her nose in an unassuming way before moving her hand back to cover an unsightly tear in the hip of her sweatpants from when she rushed to drop her daughter off at school and became entangled in the door. Her nails make it difficult to sign the bank slip, clicking against the pen noisily as she pen “Samantha Adams” neatly. A solitary, saline ridden drop forms at the corner of her eye at the realization her name represents nothing more than a moniker she bears during the daytime. Faux gold charms jingle upon her wrist while she writes, the letters “S A M M Y” engraved upon them. Her daughter’s pet name; her stage name. The heat in the bank exponentially magnifies with the pressure of a dozen gazes, but Samantha moves quickly. A tiny plastic toy watch blinks 12:00, over and over in neon blue upon her wrist. There was never enough time.