She walks up to the counter
in her fucked-up skirt
and her fucked-up leggings
and her fucked-up Doc Martins
and points at each of the packs of cigarettes
“How much tar in that one?”
“And this one?”
“Does that one have filters?”
“I’m not a used car salesman, pick a pack of cigarettes and
“I’m still not sure,” she says, she’s got her finger on her cupid’s bow.
She leans over and says, “Just tell me which one will kill me the fastest.”
The shopkeeper shakes his head and throws her a pack of Texan Plain.
Years later she marvels at how she doesn’t get change for the note she slides
across the counter.
Years later she marvels at how she needs two notes instead of one
to buy the same pack of Texan Plain.
Years later she’s upset and confused and alone and she hates herself but the person she hates the most
is the shopkeeper
and all his stupid, fucked-up broken promises.