It’s Wednesday. Wordsmith.org probably published a great word of the day today, but I wouldn’t know. I am currently south of the Mason-Dixon line, sipping as much sweet tea as I can get my hands on, reviving my southern drawl, and loving my family I haven’t seen in a very long time.
Access to a computer is limited, and time with family precious. So, here’s a rewrite of a quick write I wrote last spring on my draw from a word bag: falling.
***
Dollar in. Dollar out.
Dollar in. Dollar out.
“Dammit.”
I un-crease the corners.
Dollar in. Dollar out.
Dollar in. Dollar out.
“Come on.”
I rub the dollar along the edge of the machine in a heated effort to straighten it.
Dollar in.
No return.
I roll my eyes.
“Finally.”
My stomach grumbles as I scan the rows, bottom to top. There, A2, bag of Munchos — salty like pork rinds but a lot less cruel.
I press the “A” and ignore the committee in my head as they shout.
Trans fats!
High blood pressure!
Msg!
My stomach flip-flops with hunger pains and a fluttery reminder of the walnut-size baby growing in my belly.
She wants those munchos as much as I do, I justify as I punch “2.”
The metal spiral holding the bag begins to turn, turn, turn, loosening its grip. The bag leans to the left and slips, but not enough.
I lean towards the glass.
The turning stops.
The bag sticks.
Heat rises from my gut to my face and I place my sweaty palms on the vending machine.
The Munchos taunt me — a hungry, pregnant woman in desperate need of some salt. My palms slide down and I turn away. Dejected, I walk back down the hallway to my office, where the yogurt I arrogantly shoved aside waits for me, patient in its offering.
