by Kim Chinquee
She blasted the heat in this one, woke up to a sinus. Buttered herself with notes on reassurance, so not to destroy her ways that made her feel at least something. I am not a hermit, she said to the wall, the room getting cold and the news said there was a blizzard. A man with an accent, though they were all the same, standing there before a wall that was probably nothing but chances. She’d taken her car to the town, to find the trees lit, hardly nothing but Tim Horton’s, learning that he was a player and hockey was everywhere. Then somewhere else and she’d ordered a beer and hated eating junk food. There was a special. The place was something Crabby. Crabby John and it made her feel crabby. She drove back to the room, where there were more cars parked to save them from the highway. The weatherperson smiled, all suited and tied and he said it was a good one.
