The Tart and the Phantom

I was taking it all too personally they say. It is not your burden they say. They’re right. I wondered if they knew what I knew so I ask.
“Do you know what I know?” It was a foolish question to ask. Of course they know, as we all knew, how this thing could go badly for me. Things going badly for me is my way so they expect it but in some way I don’t.
“Yes, we know you are too involved. You can lighten up, you don’t need to do this and ask these questions.”
I sigh. Another Coup. “I know. I’ll be alright. This is the risk in laying it out. I shouldn’t be so frank.” Which is true, it’s always been true. I try to mask it but I’m as clear as day, as clear as the seeing, just as clear as my knowing perceiver, very clear. “I can change.”
Sighs and cigarettes.

I was taking it all too seriously. “Wrap your head around how serious this is,” was the word from the doctors. What could It mean, what? Death? Life with disability? Pain? Change? The wrapping with bold souls is pre-wrapped, still the waiting. ‘Bring it on you motherfucker!’, too fierce. ‘What is next dear lord,’ too pious. No responsibility? Live closely with the dirt. There is nothing. I am taking it too personally and in need of release.
“Smell my fingers,” I said to the check out girl.
“Excuse me?”
“Smell my fingers,” I repeated holding out fingers extended, palms down like I was approaching a strange dog. She sniffed. “Smells like pussy right?”
“Ew.” It didn’t. What was I doing?
“Apologies, I haven’t touched any pussy. I wish I could smell it though.” The woman stared back scanning for madness. We were locked in this fear a minute when her hand plunged down with shifting gait to accommodate it and came back up with wet fingers.
“Sniff,” she said. But the smell repulsed me, it was too strong and not cinnamon enough.
“Ew,” I said.
“Fuck you.”
I paid for the groceries and left.