Counting.

I’m standing at my cash register counting change to balance my drawer. You walk up, a smirk on your old face. Hands shoved in the pockets of your worn out carpenter jeans. A toothpick hanging out of the corner of your mouth. I glance up for a moment and give my customer service smile. Back down I shift my eyes to the money I’m counting. Suddenly you start saying numbers.

“15, 2, 23, 67,9,13.” and you grin, clearly amused with yourself.

I haven’t lost count, you aren’t the first person to think it would be hilarious to shout random numbers at someone who is counting. But now I find myself focusing less on the change in my hand; now with each number I’m counting the number of your bones I’d love to snap. With the thought of each number I hear a satisfying crack in my head and I imagine your scream. It feels so good. It would feel so good.

Unfortunately I must come back to reality. Put on my customer service face and fake amusement at your idiotic joke.

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