Up and Out

She woke up next to a bag of thawed and mushy corn. All the frost had spent the night next to her body, slowly turning into water and creeping into the fibres of her blanket and her sweater. Her alarm clock boomed and echoed in her ears, telling her to wake up and change out of her wet sweater. She hit snooze and slept.
She woke up and called four phone numbers telling stretched truths about a burnt and blistered hand. She wanted a day off. She fell back into bed, in her damp sweater and damp blanket, and she slept until 2:14 in the afternoon.
She woke up and changed her clothes, brushed her hair and her teeth, and set out on an adventure. The cold air fell across the tops of her feet, which were open to the winter. She liked the idea of open shoes and no socks in late December. She liked what this city and it's chinooks allowed her to do. Little plastic and metal contraptions sat in her ears, whispering stories to her, and she pretended a camera was following her. Her shoes were stretched from other's feet, and she clicked the heels against the pavement, turning her feet inward and practicing strutting without making noise. She hated when she made too much noise. Everyone always told her that she's too loud.




She walked into the store, listening to the same sounds for 9 minutes. She picked things up, lifted the lids, smelt the contents, and dropped them into her cart.
She walked to the counter, and asked the lady for 2 dollars worth of quarters. She paid what she owed and left.
She walked back to where she came from, but she took a different route, as there were new stories being whispered in her ears, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't pretend there were cameras around when she walked facing east. She slid across ice and wished there were more of it. She did not like what the city decided to call winter.