I did not write this, but Bran left this in the comments of my original story and it was so good, that I had to save it for all eternity.
I found myself drunk and having sex in the 7-11 bathroom and I realized that at that very moment pride and self respect were no where to be found. As I stood there, faking enjoyment of semipublic fornication with a stranger, my thoughts took me to a higher elevation of thinking.
“Why is there one tile in the ceiling that does not match?” The tile was not completely off; it was a slightly darker shade of white than the others. If I ever get enough motivation up to write a political novel, I think it will be about the presence of these mismatched but still white ceiling tiles. The classic theme of the white people holding the black people down in this model gas station society; where sex and slurpies and 22oz beer can be sold and purchased. Not that I was getting paid for the sex I was having, but prostitution always makes for a better political novel.
There is a knock on the door followed by a melody of words in a harsh language that I did not understand.
Fuck. No wait. Stop Fucking. Stop drinking. Stop ending up in places like 7-11 bathrooms thinking about writing a book and go home and write the damn book.
“Stop”
“I almost done” the stranger says.
“Almost done is close enough, closer than you thought you were going to get tonight right?” I say as I back away from him and start out the door.
As I fake confidence and stumble out into my new empowerment, I notice the white cashier.
No comments:
Post a Comment