The Pits

The fat dyke at the sandwich shop tells me she is slicing olives for my sandwich like I care what she does back there. She tells me it’s to check for pits. She tells me, “Dental work is expensive.” I have perfect teeth and wouldn’t know. And I am the right amount lean, with long hair and perfect breasts and I am hungry for my sandwich. And I am angry that this woman with her shaved head thinks I’m straight so she’s looking out for my straight teeth as I’m thinking, fuck you for wearing it on your sleeve like this while I am home and alone and lonely lonely crying about being unwanted with this sandwich here because none of you ever seems to notice how hungry I am? And the last time another woman touched me as carefully as you touch those olives she didn’t want a girl at all. She was eating bored, not hungry. Like to not insult the cook.

I’ll tell you what’s expensive. Therapy. And that’s probably where all those pits go when they’re all done breaking straight teeth.