“I’ve never been robbed before,” she sighed, leaning on the counter of my corner store. She set the black plastic handset of the store’s phone on the glass with a loud rap.

I was amazed at her stability, her casual face unstained by tears. Her loud pink t-shirt, so bright against her dark skin, was stretched over an impressive bosom. I had no idea how she got those jeans on in the morning, or at any other time of day, for that matter.

“I’m not even from around here. I’m from Sacramento.” She curled her chin into her palm and looked at me through long eyelashes.

I had to ask. “What happened?”

“Some guy asked me for change and then ran off with my purse. I don’t even know where my car is. Thank god he didn’t get my keys.” Shaking them at me, she glanced at my purse.

I paid for my bottle of wine, careful with my own wallet, in case this was a scam. I caught her looking at the change I put back, maybe looking for cards or bills, or maybe not.

Her earrings were droplets of swinging crystal, pink snowflakes right before the avalanche.

← An IndieWeb Webring πŸ•ΈπŸ’ β†’

I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.