Trees of My Jupiter

12:11 AM Sunday, Jan 13, 2013

    Heat squats in the diner, fumbling around like a lost crumb in between the cushions of a Victorian sofa.. And there she is, faint like a hologram, soldiering from thought to thought in her polite pop-licker of a head. Splintered like a tree in a s**t of a storm. All of this will be brief, I'll have you know.
       You see the plump pelt of her body, and watch as her tapered lady shoes brood solemnly in the shadowy kingdoms under the grease. Her reflection in your mind is but temporary, her state of being but a mirage of the truth. If you are searching for the immaculate, you will soon loose interest because you will not find it in her, a spasm of cramped insecurities.
        However, there are the less obvious details that require just as dutiful investigation. Like Jupiter, a detail can seem quite little when in truth it is enormous, more gangly than most concepts that dwell within you. You watch her as the meaty hand reaches, blind, for her lipstick in her kitty bag slumped over itself under the table. Her floral print blouse tenses like chapped lips, and tears unceremoniously in between the folds of her lop-sided belly. An empty sound. The white paper of the sugar packet more passionately embraces the coffee cup's smooth bottom, as if terrified. All of it feels wrong. The heat, the tacky floors, her shoes and how tight they seem to be as well. Cruel and torturous, dim and sharp.
         In a flash, the poor woman can imagine herself, how she probably looks, what one would think of her. Ripped, trodden on, and not worth much. What a depressing estimate of her worth. The moment wavers like may flies whirring in an afternoon haze.  She can imagine grasping the rather poorly washed butter knife in her hand and killing herself with it, right on the spot. Looking down, you see her suffocating black shoes flex in tension at the thought.
   One long moment of contemplation presents itself, like a w***e in the lime-light. Shaking it's long legs at her, flapping the red dress. It wasn't a pretty thought. "Neither am I," she muttered to herself. Killing yourself isn't easy. "Easier than living." She tapped her plump fingers on the table. An inch closer to the butter knife than before.