Free Disintegration by Richard Thomas Page B

Marissa. Forty and overweight, her makeup certainly applied ten times a day, she is somebody’s mother, but not mine.
    “Yes?”
    “I have that order for you, I’m sorry, I tried calling that number, but it was disconnected….”
    “Lady, I think you have the wrong guy. I’ve never been in here before.”
    Rummaging around behind the cosmetics counter, half hidden by the glass, she looks up for a second.
    “No, I never forget a face, yours or your girlfriend. She was so nice. And you’re kind of hard to miss.”
    “You’ve got me confused with somebody else.”
    I walk away before she can protest, canned foods up ahead, so it can’t be far. Around the display, no doubt, a strange look on my face, I spy the cat food, and head straight for it. A quick scan of the cheap stuff, and there it is, the holy grail of cat food. I take them all, filling the red basket, the metal handles of the basket digging into my hand from the weight of all of that cat food. Shredded Yellowfin Tuna, Sirloin Surprise, Free Range Chicken Splendid, and Mixed Grill. I take them all, clearing their entire stock in one fell swoop.
    I head for the counter up front, my cash already in hand. She catches me from behind, and places three items in with the rest of the cat food.
    “I know how it is, sir. No need to be embarrassed. I’m sorry we were out of those last time. The last one I had to special order.”
    She walks away and I stare at the products. Two I don’t know. K-Y Intense Arousal Gel (For Her). Intimate Organics Aromatherapy Massage Balm: Energizing Orange and Gingerroot.
    And the third item is nestled between them. A shade of plum lipstick called Bruise.

Chapter 41
    A rush of cold air hits me in the face, but it’s nothing compared to the violent reaction I’m having to the strange products in the plastic bags dangling from my trembling fists. The dull clank of the cat food shudders up my right arm, and I give furtive glances to the other white plastic in my left hand. I didn’t order these things. I’ve never been in this store before. I don’t know that woman. But that lipstick, Bruise, that’s Holly’s shade. Something is burning, on fire. Smoke fills my nostrils, sweet and thick.
    Brick and mortar flows past me in a blur as I head south on Milwaukee Avenue, floating down the concrete as if underwater, muffled sounds unable to penetrate my haze. No matter how many times I blink, nothing comes into focus. I cross the street, and car horns blare at me, voices screeching out of open mouths, gaping jaws overflowing with rage. Heads turn to look at me, to get a better view of the lumbering idiot, the empty-headed drone that trudges past them, unaware. I am bumped and jostled by smaller bodies, a chorus of displeasure, like a malformed line of black crows, sitting on a wire, cawing and swaying in the breeze.
    HEY…hey.
    HEY.
    Hey, man.
    HEY.
    Honey, is that you?
    HEY
    My shoulders are hit, left then right, the soft bump of flesh and bone, wool and cotton, and I turn, back and forth, like a battered saloon door. I brush a metal post, a tiny voice deep inside me drowning in angry sinew.
    “Ow, that hurt.”
    A wire-mesh trash can floats past and I bang it with my knee. It tumbles over, spilling out greasy fast-food wrappers, a crack and tinkle of bottles hitting the sidewalk, breaking into the street, bent coat hangers and the clang of crushed aluminum.
    When was the last time I saw Holly? Days? Weeks?
    I don’t know. I’ve forgotten her face now, and a rush of heat slides over my skin. My stomach curdles and there is a twitching at my eyes, eager to overflow with loss and question marks. My vision is telescoping and I fear that I may never get home—everything in the periphery is fading to slate gray, quickly descending into a blackness that I know will hold me down with glee. I rush forward, picking up the pace, just trying to get home. I simply want to feed my damn cat and lie down. I can picture my bed, the French doors