Through the rising steam of her porcelain order, ticket #68 turns away from my wagging tail. Amidst a hail of dank air and dusty wine bottles which line the counter's lonely rack, I scan her scent, huff her impurities, critical pupils contracting at every uncertainty. Though I read her name as she handed me that plastic-thin idea of self worth, "68" is a much easier concept to grasp. Her fickle eyes darting between gazes; startled at the sound of a distant howl; fluttering at the concept of human interaction, would fit better the impermanence of an order taken during a lunch rush over the stale normality implied by the 6 characters which made up her identity.
Oh, 68, her frightened lip squirming at the heat of her barbecued sandwich. She shifts in her seat, adding more steam to the white cup of safety and sophistication before her. Somewhere in the bustling distance, her scent lingers for the rest of the bloodhounds, which in her mind surround her, chase her endlessly around every corner, peer from ever parked car, breathe from every window. the unrelenting feeling of almost. Their wet noses sniffing in her unscathed ear. She struggles against her own skin's effort to meet those hunting eyes. To be taken captive.
Oh, 68, her shaking will erupts in one last stand, erect, holding herself by the hand, she lurches for the door. They'll be on to her by now. bon chance, 68. May you grow old in your bed. May the itch of your skin cease long enough for your resting head to carry you to sterile dreams. May the only howl which shakes your bones be the wind upon your lonely window. May you show with your life that the way to never widow is to never be a wife. May the thoughts of your unknown love never wake you from your slumber. To be sure of this, sweet 68, never give another your number.
