The woman stumbles circles
around her shopping cart.
She is excited to use her
new mop in the group home.
“I used to clean things, too.”
Is the only courage I can muster.
And then I lie.
“I’m an out-of-work exorcist. No
money in demon hunting
these days.”
She knocks her cart
over, says she recognizes me.
Then beings to yell at the cashier
about how I stole her baby.
I turn sideways and stare at the tattoo
growing out of the assistant manager’s
sleeve. I hate being locked into
a story, but I can’t stop now.
“I need work,” I say.
“Do you have any possessed customers or
employees?
I discount for group rates.”
He calls me a faggot, so
I leave.
I should stop pretending
everyone is as bored as I am.
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