from his starting position, ernesto’s discomfort is able to remain on par with the norm: hair standing on end, a chill up his spine, the urge to pull his sleeves loose so that sweat doesn’t stain him under the arms. the back of bertie’s newest customer reads to him as distorted and jittery as the front will, he’s sure, which is all the convincing he needs to do his job. won’t get any better. rip the bandaid, big man.
ernie peels open and folds back his notepad (a few pages stick together with what is either a reddish jam or barely-dried blood) as he crosses the truck stop one unhappy step at a time.
each footfall registers more distantly than the last, as if his mind has begun to move independent of his body. there’s a realization to be had, a collection of observations to piece together, which he attempts, in vain, to resist. now he knows the full view will provide little beyond confirmation and heavy, persistent dread.
you’re a child, he thinks. you’re a child, what happened to you?
‘ ’morning, ’ he says, tapping his pen on the page for an excuse to look quickly away from her face. he watches intently as an ink bleed twists into the words ‘you’re a child’ in his own script, then flips to the next page and spins the pen around between his knuckles. ‘ can i get you something to drink or do you — do you need a minute? ’
@creaturedear, sc.
