Page 37 of Satisfied By the Slime
There’s a basket of river stones on the bottom shelf, smooth and palm-sized, sold as doorstops or paperweights or whatever excuse people need to buy a nice rock.
I pickone up.
It’s gray with a vein of white quartz running through the center, cool and heavy in my hand, worn silk-smooth by water that hasn’t touched it in years.
I turn it over.
The quartz catches the fluorescent light and throws a faint prismatic line across my thumb.
I wonder how he’d like holding this? Would it be presumptuous or offensive for me to think a creature from a cave would enjoy a nice rock?
I grab five of them, each one a different texture and color.
At the register, Jim Crawford rings me up with the efficient silence of a man who has never once asked a customer why they’re buying what they’re buying.
I appreciate Jim Crawford more than he will ever know.
He bags the lye and oil separately, stacks the labels and parchment, and bags the rocks without a single question.
I pay cash because the card reader has been “temporarily out of service” since February, and Jim shows no signs of urgency about the situation.
I carry my bags out into the morning heat, which has already climbed past comfortable and is working its way toward punishing.
The parking lot shimmers.
Gary’s truck is gone.
Mrs. Pritchett’s golf cart is nowhere to be seen.
A yellow dog I don’t recognize is sleeping in the shade of the building’s overhang, one ear twitching at flies.
I load the bags into the truck bed, wedging the coconut oil tub against the wheel well so it won’t slide.
The river stones sit in their own bag on the passenger seat, and I look at them for a second too long before I start the engine.
I’m bringing him gifts.
I’ve only known him for a day, yet I want him to feel welcomed andappreciated.
I pull out of the lot and point the truck toward home, windows down, dry air rushing through the cab and lifting the hair off the back of my neck.
The road stretches out ahead of me, familiar and empty, and I drive a little faster than I need to.
Chapter 9
Assembly Line
Oz
She comes through the doorshoulder-first, hip catching the frame for support, her arms completely full.
Maisie has two paper bags with “Crawford’s Supply” written on them, a roll of parchment tucked under her chin, and a smaller plastic sack swinging from her wrist.
I watch from the kitchendoorway.
I’ve held this shape for most of the hour she’s been gone, humanoid and still, because the house felt different without her in it and I wanted to be ready when she came back.
Ready for what, I couldn’t say. Just ready.
