Lena felt a dark rush.
It may just have been the purr of engine. Dom’s slick black Mercedes rolled like oil down the quiet street. The one Lena was pretending was hers. Dom always insisted on driving her home, so she’d told him she lived above the post office. She would wait inside when she got out the car, until he drove away – then walk the few streets home to her actual flat.
Backlogged tacos fester inside a body ill-equipped to digest them. Rotting burgers demand too much from some orifice or soft shell of skin to find a way to the quickest exit. Instead, they stack and seep within you for decades. Heart, spleen, intestines, liver, stomach, each hold back gossip of the secret sauces they contain. Now, mouths rattle over spot-stained kitchen utensils. No one ever calls in to write up this meat hacking hole teeming with pestilence.
First hour was shop class. I’d come in every morning stoned. Our teacher was an alcoholic and an asshole and didn’t know anything.
No one was allowed to go in the shop today because someone got hurt yesterday from horsing around. Horsing around didn’t mean just hitting each other in the balls. Yesterday two kids got in a fight and one kid threw a hammer at the other kid and it hit him in the knee cap and fucked him up.