Straps of color wrap her foot where sandals chafe skin. Her legs hug the bench.
"Nice day."
"Yep."
He sits, slightly unwelcome.
She pulls her skirt down, tries to cover the purplepuckered bruise on her thigh. Don't notice, don't notice.
"What the hell happened?"
Noticed, damnit. She pushes feet out, her shoes, she thinks, might distract. Those punchy colors, and he's easily distracted. With her eyes, practically black, Stevie stares at her feet. Stares.
"Was it Luka or Tryese?"
She cools.
Dorward stands up, bends to tie his shoes. Knows she'll ignore him.
"You should double knot them."
He shrugs, "I don't mind," but double knots his laces. Studies the bruise: puffy with puss, blue around the edges.
Fast her hand covers it. Dorward slaps the hand off.
Stevie buckles.
"Don't touch me."
"Shoulda said that before."
Stevie stands, enough.
"I'll tell Luka you said hi."
Dorward grips her by the arm. She whips around, accuses him:
"What? You don't want me to?"
"Your brothers...I could..."
Don't bother.
She huffs, a handwave flings concern.
"I'm hungry. Havent eaten in...well, haven‘t eaten."
"I wish you would stop."
Again, she ignores.
Dorward follows Stevie's legs. Long, purple-bruised legs, too many men. He stops, wonders about them, then outloud:
"I don't want to know."
"Don't want to know what?"
"Nothing."
"You want to come?"
"What?"
"To eat, I mean."
He catches her pace, hardly. He may be tall, Stevie thinks, but his head's like lead. Slows him down.
She waves to him. Keep up, damnit.
Hunger scrapes her stomach, she orders pie and coffee.
The man grunts: "Blueberry?"
"Molasses. Anything with molasses."
Stevie orders, needs that thick feeling under her tongue. Three more days of this hunger. Lord, I'll die.
"Molasses? I didn't know you liked pie?"
"I do."
She looks him over: collar unbuttoned, hat crooked over greasy hair, but then, hers so greasy, days—goddam too many days—since a wash. Her brothers in the goddam showers, their women, hogs. Stevie has to go. So do they, but then, Luka keeps his all night, and Tyese's whore. Slut.
"It keeps me full. What you want to eat?"
"I can‘t take your money."
"Spare me and order."
"Eggs, scrambled, no cheese."
"Good order."
"Thanks."
Dorward sits, swirls on the stool. She pounds her hand on the vinyl cover, stops him.
"That's annoying."
He stops, laughs. Never offended.
"So tonight, you...?"
"Yes."
"But you can stop, you know."
Stevie's pie comes. One hand on the hot plate, she eyes the bar for a fork. Dorward offers his.
"What about your eggs?"
He shrugs, "You not gonna answer me?"
Such questions. Stevie stabs the molasses pie with her fork, scoops the syrup that oozes over, shovels it in.
She doesn't care. Long past caring, but goddam, what a pie. Too bad it's $3 bucks a slice.
"Can you believe this is $3? Pie at Francie‘s only a buck fifty."
"I don't care."
She shrugs, neither does she. But she tries.
"No, I ain't gonna stop, okay? So leave it be."
"‘Cause of your brothers?"
Not a question.
"Please. I told you to..."
The eggs come. With cheese.
She laughs, full—loud so the whole place hears. Not that it matters, Stevie thinks, at three in the morning. This is funny to her: unwanted cheese smothering egg.
"You think that's funny, huh? My eggs are ruined."
"I'll eat um."
He slides the dish. She eats fast, an animal.
"Shit! Slow down you'll make yourself sick."
"Fuck that."
He laughs at her. Her big mouth, pucker—the men call it (even her brothers)—around the eggs. The way she eats, like she fucks. No wonder.
"Stop it. I know what you're doing."
Stevie sees his look.
"Nothing, doing nothing."
"Right."
She finishes. Her bones, so damn ugly, bulging from the skin. But for a little while, at least, full. Hand to stomach, she feels heat. Loves it. Pushes away questions, her next meal. If only she could plump up some.
"I gotta go."
Dorward scowls. Stevie tries again, nudges him.
"C'mon. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Same time?"
No answer. He knows.
She yanks her v-neck, hikes up her skirt. Her brothers will be proud tonight. A full stomach, full pockets.
Heather Palmer believes writing squishes reality into words. She uses minimal syntax in short fiction form to "drop" readers into characters. The language of her work is minced, so dialogue is guttural, and often succinct, because she wants action and motive to drive the character, with dialogue as aftermath. She studies writing at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago to get her MFA, and has published in Elimae and No Posit. Outside of writing she loves swinging, swimming, and her home state, Pennsylvania.