Go Spin Yourself

by jerrontables

Megan crossed herself and stood up from her rolling chair, pushing it with the backs of her knees toward the silent middle of her begawked cubicle community. It was a conversation like a frustrated scream, climaxing in a brutish head-on, ending loudly and with teeth. Eyes were fixated. Gaping mouths followed until a hard left gave way to whispers and muffled laughter, exaggerated reenactments.

She was a simple girl–sweet and kind, clean and unoffensive. She had only had four boyfriends and they were all very serious. And she had only slept with three of them. She had only had a one-night stand on two occasions and that was in college. She never over-drank outside of turn–major holidays and the birthdays of her and her friends. Now she steamed toward the bathroom, puffered and warm with exasperation.

As she was pushing the door, Megan danced with an older lady that had been pulling and was trying to make a joke of it. She burst into tears. In the handicapped stall, she grabbed a toilet seat cover and placed it neatly on the floor in front of the commode. She placed another one on top of that. From her pocket she removed loose wet wipes that had begun to bleed damp sanitation through the fabric of her office pants. She wiped down the lid of the toilet and placed a cover on top. She placed another one on top of that. Then she knelt down and prayed, sobbed–echoing off the lid and the bathroom walls.

Megan was not so religious lately and hadn’t been for years, but more than that she was not an inside salesperson. Megan did not enjoy computers outside of casual internet and word processors, but she had set herself up for it. She had gone to department stores and supersales and spent not dollars but paychecks on hot pants and glimmer paint. She was peachy for the camera. She was the flytrap, the Megan of bated breath. Then she got her man–too earnest for good–and together they fell into establishing themselves. Conquering. Playing nice with other perception. Purchasing car, apartment, entertainment, friend’s birthdays, major holidays, minor ones, restaurant foods. Iphones. Automobile speakers. Tiny dogs and bottled water. Premeditated accoutrements.

But she did not have him anymore. All she had was this job in this office at this point in time when she was nauseated for her mother and the melting ice-cream of her summertime youth. She prayed for home, for bicycles and promises with sweet friends that smelled like strawberries and were sticky like them, but she only had this car and her dog and this cable television. And now she had this toilet and she was calling for God in a world that searched with its eyes closed, spinning itself and pretending it was the real thing. She could see it now, standing on rocks and playing teacher like a skin-kneed child, red finger in the air, shouting things that are stupid.

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