[Fiction] Love Letters To Myself, Part Three

Worn down cars that had been inherited from grandparents and old relatives were parked outside of the small town’s equally old pharmacy.  Reluctantly, I pushed open the glass door that wore a mundane red sticker that read “Push” — which was adjacent to another that read “Pull.”  The handle was sticky, and left an unpleasant residue that smelt of sufficiently aged pennies, rusty and well used.  Florescent lights beamed down from the ceiling, exposing flaws on even the most Covergirl skin (located in aisle 6).  The cashier, no older than a high school junior, greeted me as if I were a cold glass of water in the middle of a scorching desert, with a beaming, toothy smile that was filled with a combination of desperation and relief.  An older woman with a blue apron snapped her fingers in front of his face before looking me up and down like a bad selection of meat, hanging up in a butcher shop window.  Her name tag read “Ingrid.”  Ingrid’s hair had been badly dyed a tinge of blue to accentuate her aging gray locks.  Playing ignorant, I continued to make my way towards the back, where a makeshift pharmacy was set up.  The rest of the store was filled with knock-off Beanie Babies and inexpensive toiletries, anything you would need in a hurry, but didn’t want.  Hidden behind the mess of appropriate greeting cards and tacky lawn decorations was, finally, a sea of much needed prescriptions and geriatric medications.  Seven or eight chairs sat in a crescent near the back, all facing a small counter where the Pharmacist stood like she was the hottest thing on Broadway — another Ingrid, with fresh blue hair that was illuminated under the florescent lights.  An older man was standing at her counter, arguing the flexibility of Ingrid Number Two’s schedule, who pursed her lips like they were coated in a lemon’s tart juice.  The man angrily snatched at his stained, white paper bag before hunching over and staggering away.  As I approached the counter, a stench of floral perfume crashed into me like a truck.  Before I could wipe my debris from the crash, Ingrid Number Two looked me up, and then looked me down (just like the first), before asking my name.  She strut back to a shelf filled up with orange-brown tubes with little white lids that held pills and liquids of infinite color, melding together to look like dung.  She grabbed at another white paper bag, reading the label, and looked back at me with more disgust than spoiled meat.  After quickly handing me the parcel, she strode into the bathroom and the sound of running water filled the quiet store.  Even Ingrid Number One and the nervous cashier looked up from their most serious work.  When Number Two emerged again, she was drying her hands on her blue apron, leaving a particularly unforgiving stain right below her crotch.  She swiped at the air with a hand of fake blood red nails, gesturing for me to go.  So I did.


What is it about birth control that turns old women sour?  Social shot from December 2014.


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Indigo is a writer living out of Seattle. She plays a lot of video games.

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