nothing wrong with my lifestyle : {kaplan}
Apr 16, 2017 10:56:18 GMT -5
Post by goat on Apr 16, 2017 10:56:18 GMT -5
joyce antrican
A child has been bothering me all day. Whenever she sees me, she runs over and tugs on my pants. "I'm hungry," she says every time, as if she doesn't know how to say anything else. I shake her off and go back to whatever I was doing. What I want to say is, child, we're all hungry, you'll have to get used to it, but I can't be bothered.
I'm perched on the edge of Clara's bed, trying to patch a hole in one of her dresses. She had tried to do it herself, but after poking herself with the needle one too many times, I told her I would help. I have no idea how to sew, but I'll try for her. I'm working the needle in and out of the fabric, Clara watching over my shoulder, when a knock comes on our door. "It's open," Clara says.
The child wanders in. I roll my eyes and set the dress down. Clara, who is much more compassionate than I am, rises from the bed and kneels in front of the child. "What is it?" She asks, her voice steady, like she's trying to calm a wild animal.
"I'm hungry," the child replies, wringing her hands together.
Clara turns and looks at me. I sigh. "She's been bugging me about it all day. I can't help her."
She raises an eyebrow. "Can't you? I mean..."
Of course she would manage to convince me with less than five words. "Fine," I mutter.
Ten minutes later, I'm hovering around the back door of a bakery. I haven't been here before. I have no idea what the shopkeeper's schedule is. Getting caught could have catastrophic repercussions. I should have gone somewhere easier, like a neighbor's home, but I'm already here. I don't want to waste anymore time than I need to. Past the open door, I can see the bakery's display case. It's filled with breads and pastries, the delicious smell wafting towards me. I envy the people who can buy luxuries like this whenever they please. My mouth, against my will, begins to water.
The sound of a bell chiming jolts me out of my gluttonous thoughts. The shopkeeper has walked out of the store (through the front door, thank god) and is making their way away from the building. This is it. I have no idea when he will return, so I must act fast. I bolt through the back door, heading right for the display case. I pry the door open and reach for a loaf of bread. On top of the bread, which I cradle in my arms like a baby, I pile a few pastries. The smell is almost unbearable now, and I want nothing more than to shove all of these sweets into my mouth. Both my hands are occupied, so I don't bother with shutting the door. The shopkeeper will know somebody was here, but they will not know it was me.
I hurry out of the bakery. If somebody sees me out in the open, I'll surely be caught. Traveling behind the buildings in the district square until I reach safer surroundings seems to be the best way to get home. If I run into somebody, well, they may be on their way to do something morally questionable themselves.
I'm perched on the edge of Clara's bed, trying to patch a hole in one of her dresses. She had tried to do it herself, but after poking herself with the needle one too many times, I told her I would help. I have no idea how to sew, but I'll try for her. I'm working the needle in and out of the fabric, Clara watching over my shoulder, when a knock comes on our door. "It's open," Clara says.
The child wanders in. I roll my eyes and set the dress down. Clara, who is much more compassionate than I am, rises from the bed and kneels in front of the child. "What is it?" She asks, her voice steady, like she's trying to calm a wild animal.
"I'm hungry," the child replies, wringing her hands together.
Clara turns and looks at me. I sigh. "She's been bugging me about it all day. I can't help her."
She raises an eyebrow. "Can't you? I mean..."
Of course she would manage to convince me with less than five words. "Fine," I mutter.
Ten minutes later, I'm hovering around the back door of a bakery. I haven't been here before. I have no idea what the shopkeeper's schedule is. Getting caught could have catastrophic repercussions. I should have gone somewhere easier, like a neighbor's home, but I'm already here. I don't want to waste anymore time than I need to. Past the open door, I can see the bakery's display case. It's filled with breads and pastries, the delicious smell wafting towards me. I envy the people who can buy luxuries like this whenever they please. My mouth, against my will, begins to water.
The sound of a bell chiming jolts me out of my gluttonous thoughts. The shopkeeper has walked out of the store (through the front door, thank god) and is making their way away from the building. This is it. I have no idea when he will return, so I must act fast. I bolt through the back door, heading right for the display case. I pry the door open and reach for a loaf of bread. On top of the bread, which I cradle in my arms like a baby, I pile a few pastries. The smell is almost unbearable now, and I want nothing more than to shove all of these sweets into my mouth. Both my hands are occupied, so I don't bother with shutting the door. The shopkeeper will know somebody was here, but they will not know it was me.
I hurry out of the bakery. If somebody sees me out in the open, I'll surely be caught. Traveling behind the buildings in the district square until I reach safer surroundings seems to be the best way to get home. If I run into somebody, well, they may be on their way to do something morally questionable themselves.
wc; 557
