Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The smell of burnt hair fills the small, dark room and mixes with the smell of cheap perfume and bacon. Water drips from the faucet with metronome-like precision. Somewhere outside, a dog barks wildly and tries to alert someone of something it finds most important, but seemingly no one else does.
She waves a hand in front of her face to thin the smoke out before taking another breath. She takes in the tainted air tenuously and holds it in her lungs before exhaling. Her eyes water and her pale skin reflects the sunlight that streams through the broken window. The bits of broken glass on the floor shimmer like diamonds. Sliding her hands into the pockets of her tight jeans, she whispers, “I want to get some cake.” RELAX is written across her t-shirt in bold, black letters.
“Where are you going to find cake at this hour on a Sunday around here?” The man continues to cook. His bare feet crunch on the broken glass with each shift of body weight. The memory of her naked in bed hours before still running though his mind, he slides the fork over the surface of the pan and through the grease that coats it, flipping the tender meat within it expertly.
The dog goes quiet.
“There has to be someplace around here that serves cake.” She sighs, knowing that he's probably right, but unwilling to admit it to him.