Free FALSE FRONT by Ry Eph Page A

punctures into the center of the old man’s chest, and
his tired reflexes react after the book makes contact.
    “Read
that instead of whatever else you were reaching for, grandpa.”
    “I
hate your generation,” he says, pressing his fingers into his chest where the
book stabbed him.”
    “Your
creation.”
    “Damn
shame.”
    He
lunges, and the wrinkled fellow jolts before his feet move, toppling him onto
his drooping ass.
    “Damn
you.”
    The
dapper younger man raises his arm and points a finger in the direction the
fallen old man should go and says, “Beat it, obsolete.”
    The elder
lifts his rabbit-tail eyebrows on his melting face while shaking his head at
the vibrant youthfulness standing over him. He grunts as he gathers himself to
his feet and scuffles down the aisle, mumbling to himself.  
    He
goes back to attending the books and gathers stacks of the novel he gave to the
lady and elderly in his arms.
    “You’re
a mean asshole,” says a small, sweet-potato-haired girl in a blinding green
dress. She furrows her brow and crinkles her freckled nose, as she holds a lime
sucker inches from her mouth.  
    He
spins around on his heel, nudging his shades down the thin bridge of his nose.
He slides his nickel eyes up the girl, interrogating her. His eyes stop on her
face and he raises one of his dark slanted eyebrows, which are higher and thicker
at the center.
    “You
really shouldn’t be an ass to people. My mom tells my daddy all the time it
will come back to bite you in your own butt.”
    “I
don’t buy into karma.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing.
Does your mom know you curse?”
    “No.”
    He
snags the sucker from her hand before she can get another lick, her tongue
sticking out of her mouth.
    “Give
it back.”
    “Go
away.”
    “I’ll
scream.”
    “Go
away and I’ll give it back.”
    She
hops up and down and swipes at the stolen candy.
    He
flings it over the pallet of books and it lands in a passerby’s cart.
    She
stops jumping, folds her hands over her chest, exhales loudly from her button
nose, and frowns.
    “I’m
going to tell my mom.”
    “Your
mom’s stupid.”
    “Your
tattoos are stupid.”
    He
places his hand inside his low-cut v-neck and tickles at the ink decorating his
collar and neck. A colorful tattooed heart with metallic wings at the center of
his throat wraps up and around his neck and travels toward his spine.
    “No
they are not.”
    “Yes
they are,” she says.
    He
folds all his fingers down except for one, so his fist lies below the bright
heart and his middle finger stands between the wings, giving her the bird.
    She
tilts her head back and forth in confusion.
    “Get
it?”
    She
shrugs her shoulders.
    “It’s
my middle finger with wings.”
    “So?”
    “It’s
a bird.”
    “Okay,”
she says.
    “Middle
finger? The bird? Wings around a middle finger? Fuck you?”
    She
stares at him.
    “Never
mind.”
    “Do
you have a cough?”
    “What?”
    “The
weird thing wrapped on your face,” she says, pointing at the cloth hiding his
identity.
    He
reaches up and pinches at the bandana.
    “Are
you sick?”
    “We’re
all sick.”
    “I’m
not.”
    “You
just don’t know it yet.”
    She
reaches up and feels her forehead with the back of her hand.
    “Get
lost, ginger.”
    “My
name’s not ginger.”
    “But
the top of your head looks like a fading camp fire.”
    Her
hands climb to her hair, fingers scrunching at the untamed flames.
    He chuckles,
goes back to ignoring her, and faces the white and gold hardcover books again.
Reaching around as many of them as he can, he bear hugs the stack and pulls
them into the cart. A few books fall, sliding across the slick grey floor. One
of them bumps up against the girl’s shoe.
    She
toes at it with her white polka-dot sneaker, watching the man grab a few of the
spilled books that didn’t make it into the cart. She eyes him as he notices the
copy at her foot.
    “You’re
still here.”
    She
giggles.
    “What?”
    “I
get