"Black olives and dill pickles," Merissa orders breathlessly, shifting the weight in her arms onto her hip. "Please." Sweat trickles between her breasts. Pin-pricks, begging to be scratched, hop along the back of her neck. She inhales slowly, trying to force herself to be calm, but her heart thumps wildly, refusing to cooperate.
The old lady on the other side of the counter gapes. The cigarette between her lips dips, sending a hooked-finger of ash whirling into a box of licorice pipes. She curses, picks up the box, and waves it kamikaze-style over the trash can without losing one candy sprinkle or removing her eyes for one second from Merissa. A greasy-haired man hunched over a lotto machine turns and eyes them both.
"I'll be goddamned!" His jaw drops.
At first, Merissa thinks they're staring because of the hives. An army of welts marches across her chest, behind her ears and through her scalp. Just what she needs, today of all days. Then she thinks it is because she looks so god-awful when she cries, but she realizes, with a start, that she hasn't shed a tear. Not one. Which means, of course, that they are staring at the graph-o-phone with its huge fluted horn which appears to be growing out of her hip. Well, she couldn't leave the priceless family heirloom in Uncle Dister's pickup when none of the locks on the doors work, could she? Out on Highway 1?
"Pitted."
"Eh?" The old lady stirs off the stool, grinding the cigarette into a jam jar lid...
Hope you have enjoyed this excerpt from Roads Unravelling published by Sumach Press.
