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Undeniable

Nicole Spangler

    There’s an envelope sitting on my kitchen counter. It’s white and official looking, with the starch crispness of money and pomp. It’s opened, because I opened it an hour ago. Paper cuts on wrinkled fingers. I should throw it away as to clear room on my counter for when I make dinner, but moving feels like so much effort. They injected my bones with lead. Why stand when I can sit on the grubby tile floor, butt planted firmly on the molding grout (Gary promised he’d fix it a month ago). I can see a candy wrapper from here, it’s bright red and covered in a fine layer of dust. I would probably choke if I swallowed it. Asphyxiation by plastic. I think my phone might be ringing. It always rings at night. That must be when the scam callers clock into work. The night shift is appealing to those with cellular devices. I can attest to that fact, the dark circles under my eyes simply extra evidence to add to my case file. Illicit activities. The ringing goes silent and I close my eyes. It was only a job.

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