She—an unrepeated motif—waxes precocious, not unlike her ancient self. Never mind the counterfeit eccentrics: strange enough to be noticed, not enough to be doomed. Their imperfection simply inconvenient. She’d give her life for them. They don’t realize omniscience is boring, they’re only inspired through relapse. In preschool, she learned people are mean for no reason, so she gave away her quarters at bake sale. Her mother would say, “That money is yours.” The girl would ask, adjusting her overalls, “If it’s mine, can’t I decide what to do with it?” In the future, when repeating this story to that other motif, she’d know he’s “The One” when he’d say, “What do four-year-olds need to know about capitalism? Yet thanks to Walt Disney, they learn conformity and following your heart aren’t at odds.” She’d notice his ring, wish she were twenty-six, find a comfortable chair in purgatory: trapped between what should be and what is. As long as she’s sitting, she may as well start smoking. It’s a fine day for oral fixation. It doesn’t matter if her lungs bleed. It’s not like she smokes the same brand as the counterfeit eccentrics. She’d wonder if in a past life she was a dusty vacuum cleaner, covered in what she was meant to destroy. It’s too easy to claim hypocrisy. Too easy to cry genius for discovering what works when for so long, there was nowhere else to go. She hasn’t been happy since she was thirteen, the day before her first existential crisis. Her mother said, “Stop being so melodramatic.” She said, “I’m not too young for a mid-life crisis. I just won’t live to see thirty.” She owes her life to a fear of hell, knows we all experience it differently. Hers is a banquet. The proceeds will be donated toward ending world hunger. At the end of the night, the keynote speaker complains that Alfredo sauce doesn’t reheat well, so the leftovers get thrown out.
by Lauren Yates
