He stared blankly ahead of him.
Potato chips. Salty, delicious,
hell on cotton chops. The bag was bright
and colorful, the image of a cartoon tiger lazily resting on the pillar-esque
brand name glared with a passive seething at Michael as he stood in the grocery
store aisle, staring blankly ahead of him at his selections.
There were organic chips also. These
were more natural color tones, revisiting an autumn leaf amongst the swirls of
human-injected colors. The bag was made
of something recycled, making it loud from the simplest touch. It was healthier, or so that's what Michael
had come to believe of anything with the words 'organic' spewed across it.
It was also more expensive; two dollars higher. While that mattered little to Michael in this
particular case, he had come to think that "green" products might
have been the saving grace of the system he existed in, not to mention a luxury
reserved for the middle class. The rest,
Michael and his fellow nameless legions, would be stuck with the same
processed, artificial, but cheap, foods that they had been ramming down their
throats since birth.
A girl in bright blue leggings and a Pantera tee-shirt walked down the
aisle, stepping aside from Michael and not even shooting him a second
look. Her ass caught Michael's eye; he
popped his knuckle and wondered when he would sleep with someone again,
wondered what it would be like to sleep with her. She was young, he could tell by the naiivety
in her raised arm as she swiped a box of cookies off of the top shelf of the
aisle. Hormones in food. That had to be the cause of all of this. Too many fifteen year olds roaming the
streets of his city, busting out of their shirts and sheep herding the males
they encounter into dangerous hog basins of moral abandonment.
He grabbed the organic chips.
"Fuck the two bones," he whispered to himself, hoping oddly that the young girl had heard him and would strike up a conversation over his use of the word "bones" to describe his money or his obvious disdain for quantitative oppressions. Neither happened, in fact she was exiting the aisle. He stared at her ass again, any sense of nonchalant behavior absent.
Wondering what it would feel like to have her ass up against him, wondering what it would be like to lay in a bed with her, what her views were in regards to organic chips or if she knew how to fire a gun.
"Fuck the two bones," he whispered to himself, hoping oddly that the young girl had heard him and would strike up a conversation over his use of the word "bones" to describe his money or his obvious disdain for quantitative oppressions. Neither happened, in fact she was exiting the aisle. He stared at her ass again, any sense of nonchalant behavior absent.
Wondering what it would feel like to have her ass up against him, wondering what it would be like to lay in a bed with her, what her views were in regards to organic chips or if she knew how to fire a gun.
No, but that couldn't be the case.
He couldn't cuddle after a fuck.
It was possible once, in fact it was almost needed. Michael would cling to their bodies like a
newly-made orphan to the corpse of his lukewarm mother. The sex was sex; afterwards he was investing
himself into some spiritual plane that he had dreamed up on all his own. It was a passive form of punishment; he was
weighing out ways to kill himself without ever actually dying by his own hand. Spooning, she on top, however it had to be;
to not feel the secondary warmth of a body seemed to make or break the sex's
appeal at all.
Not anymore. He didn't want to be
touched. "Roll over, please,"
he would say, "if you lay like that, my arm falls asleep. Sorry." So many apologies.
