The saleslady’s sharp fingernails pawed through boxes of shapes. Four-leaved clovers, Christmas trees, stars, hearts. This is the heart of Jesus! She exclaimed. You can frost the celestial rays in chiffon yellow or aura white. We shook our heads and she let the cookie cutter drop with a clink back into the box. We grew tired watching her maddening insistence, that supernatural hairdo that didn’t seem to succumb to the showering ash and soot and dust that landed irritatingly on our heads and in our eyelashes.
No, sorry, we muttered, touching each other’s arms, making sure we were all still together. What she showed us wasn’t what we were looking for. She was disappointed but tried to mask it with her big teeth. Let’s try over here, she said, dragging us to the back. She insisted she had the perfect selection of rolling pins and thin, stainless-steel shapes. She could see us already, she said, holed up in the kitchen for days maybe weeks maybe longer, happily mixing and rolling and cutting perfect cookies. These are top of the line, she said.
Her insistence tried to imprison us. We turned and ran, dodging boxes and tables. We emerged onto the sidewalk, into what remained of the light. It was when she said the word perfect, we agreed. That, we said, remembering the violence of her hair, was a dead giveaway. We continued down the block, peering into dark windows, our eyes shielded by our hands.
You can find out more about Sara Fraser's fiction at http://sarabfraser.com
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