Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer

Cat toys. They have an aisle for cat toys. Of all the gaudy alleys in all the supermarkets and I find myself boxed into the last seconds of existence surrounded by fake mice and pom-poms. I fucking hate cats.

I can hear Mrs Graves calling out for her dead husband Franklin as she has sex with Billy Pike over in Personal Hygiene. Mrs Graves was my PE teacher and Billy always did fancy his chances. He’d say that she had pools in her eyes when she looked at him and that he could feel her words when she spoke.

In Wine and Beer, the good Reverend Donner and his goodly wife Tamzen and their goodlier daughter Elitha, sit drunk and scared and eating bits of their Christ in a circle. Even with vomit and breadcrumbs stuck to her lips, I love this girl. I really, truly actually do.

I love her even though she thinks I’m a creep. She said nothing as I pushed through my shyness and proclaimed that the way her hair floats and filters the sun is the most beautiful thing that I’d ever, ever seen. Mind you, now saying it back, it does sound a bit Ted Bundy-ish.

In the meat section, Patrick Breen is crying as he kisses and pulls at the hair of Lewis Keesburg and neither one thinks about rugby as they squirm atop a vacuum sealed mattress of cheese-filled sausages and party-pack portions of pork.

So quickly it came to this, the end of all ends. Sparks, acid filled motes or maybe they are even alive – these blistering fireflies that swirl and stick to the glass. Oh, how they burn, how they dissolve and eat us away. Maybe they are metaphor, a construct, a delusion. One born of hate and ignorance and legislation signed by fat-fingered men. Things that made me think I was hated and ignored, yet I know it is not fictitious this thing that now contorts and thumps at the walls.

The ones who ran out back into the whip to look for those things they most loved, they are gone. They are dead.

I knew them all. And this last handful of life, the people who stayed and cowered here and found for themselves an appropriate aisle, I know them too. But I am sure they don’t know me.

Futility builds little clans. No time for bets that are hedged, no time for talk. There is barely but time to cast off these – our dogged blankets of lead.

I sit here alone squeezing a rubber toy, it is in the shape of a ball of wool and it squeals like the drawing of sick breath. The moan thump of the sex and the climaxing blurry pant of hymns surge and they beat in the blood of my ears. I know I have wasted my moment. Elitha, all I wanted was to talk.

I scream and all sound folds down into one sucked screech. A drone that is gulped down by the red fire blaze as the tiles on the floor rip like a zipper spitting its teeth and my world it breaks into two.

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