The smallest composite number.

Four characters have yet to exist, but are still very much alive.

Here, before too awfully long, I wil be moving to Louisiana.

Moving to where I can create these four characters for a book deal.

The thief.

Race you to the car, in the dead of summer.
Forget the shoes, grab the flask.

Drive me away, far, far, away.
The old metal shakes, and my ass tingles.

Find the fault line, baby.
Let us go dance where the world can snap in half.
Let us get swallowed whole,
Let us swim in the magma.

Your one liner.

I stood in the waiting line. Five people in front of me. I hate this number that represents my place. My stomach churns as my tongue wraps around those three letters.

There are delays, and all I want are cigarettes.

More people come in, sleazy dyed blonds with roots showing, teeny boppers barely clothed, dirty men with yellowed teeth, round men in swim trunks and tees.

Certain ones glared at me, certain ones smiled, nodded, even winked.

It just made me more sad. I look to my right, as if someone would be standing next to me, as if I had a rock.

I stood listening to the old black Southern woman’s gospel play. I only come here for her. To hear her murmurs, her quips, her one liners. She’s big, and she sashays behind the counter that makes me look even smaller.

There’s idle chatter, annoying words, before me, behind me.

I feel the previous weeks woes, none of it my own, fall down onto my shoulders putting more pressure on my back. Instinctively, I rub it.

I bite my lip to keep it from quivering. The Delta gospel maybe too inspirational, too vulgar. I think to myself, “Keep it together, keep it inside, darling. We’ll be out of this line soon.”

I hate that grating pause before you step up. Over and over it seemed. I felt weak, surely from lack of food over the last few days. From the humidity, from the stress, from the worry. I try to forget.

Finally Sheri asks me to step up. For some reason I can’t look into her eyes at first. Too afraid she’ll see, too afraid I’ll weep, too afraid she’ll pull me to her bosom and cradle me, “Hush child, it’ll all be alright. Hush child.”

So she says to me, “Oh mah child, jus’ one today, or maybe two? Yall need two if you work in da mounin’. Have they gotten any smarder in dhere? Does ol’ Sheri need to give dhem dhe ol’ what for?”

No ma’am, and please, just one today. No work tomorrow, it’s Sunday. I’m going to try to sleep, maybe swim.

“Child, when will you come to da church with me? A baby like you needs some singin’ for her soul. She needs da home cookin’ and da sun.”

Soon ma’am, soon. One of these Sunday’s I’ll knock on your door. I’ll even wear red.

My eyes started to well up as I turned around, the glares got stronger, the smiles bigger. I walked quickly to the door, to my red bicycle and she yells after me,

“Child, I know a man dat can save, I know a woman dat can sing, I know a meal dat can heal. You do as Sheri says, you do.”

Yes ma’am.