“…her stolen jewelry, unreturned money, breach of contract,” the daytime television droned.
She tapped her nail five times, on the sIixth she looks down, sees her jagged big toe, and tucks it under her bright, floral column dress’ hem and decides to assert herself.
“I don’t know which one I am supposed to be with. Cindy made–”
A chorus responds, “It was most likely Brenda. She’ll be here shortly.”
“Damn Cindy and her endless hankering for chicken and waffle fries!”
“Tanya, you’re sabatoging your customers. Saturday-”
Apology, saying a short prayer is suggested.
Silence of the judgment of his family of the girl with crooked plaits.
“This is scary. There is no reason-”
“Why is your hair like this?”
“Cause I believe the voices that tell me to put myself last and not take care of myself.”
“Are these voices in your head?”
“Are you depressed?”
Pause, snip, snip.
“Ya gotta go to the places, the groups.”
“Hard to find places where people are honest about feeling this way.”
“Look at you! Look at you.”
She looks at her eyes then up to May’s smile in the mirror.
She shyly returns the smile.
“You need to do your feet, stop being lazy, and find the Lord.”
In her smile’s soon absence, all lessons are tattooed onto freshly healed synaptic gaps.