Ellison Blood Sugar Baby

 NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE

HE WAS LOST. His GPS didn’t take roadwork into account
nor roads closed to protests into account,
he’d been shunted off onto several side streets and was driving in circles. He finally
made a right turn and pulled to the curb to get out a real map, and
as he reached—into the glove box—shit, he needed to get that knife
out of there—he saw her.
Sprawled back against the wall, a sprawl on the concrete sidewalk,
at her feet, staring vacantly into space. Her dirty blonde hair was
last limp and fell into dreadlocks, matted against her scalp. The
left side. He drove the clumps slowly, watching, seeing the curve of her
little ear, surprisingly white and clean, the slope of her jaw; her neat
skin. Her eyes were light. He was too far away to see if they were
blue or green. Light irises, and unfocused pupils. High, perhaps,
or starved, or simply beyond caring.

No one
would miss her. And he could rid himself of this
nagging fury that made him so damn antsy.

He closed the glove box and circled the block. There she sat,
just waiting for him.


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