Perfidy, Thy Name is Writing

At 10:30am, Rhonda is here early, a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. She rolls the car window down halfway and sticks her arm out, cigarette dangling from her fingertips. An elderly man exits Fred’s with his shopping cart full of clothes, picture frames, and other odds and ends because the dollar store will be closing down in three more weeks. He is followed by a steady stream of other customers—families, more old people, local crazies, anybody really. They all split and go their separate ways to corresponding minivans and pick-up trucks. It is technically still morning, but the tiny shopping plaza’s parking lot is already teeming with life.

As they pass by, Rhonda hears and occasionally listens to snatches of murmured conversation that have nothing to do with her. The topics are mundane for the most part, about picking up dry cleaning and grocery lists, routines not unlike her own, but for some reason seem so much more interesting coming from someone else’s mouth. She breathes out a cloud of smoke, suddenly remembering to buy more milk today or Davis will be eating dry cereal the next morning. She would ask Jacob to buy it, but more than likely he would wind up buying the whole milk variety despite the fact that ten percent is the only kind that makes any appearance in the fridge—which, she notes again, is also in need of a general restocking. However, her husband is not to blame; he is hardly ever at home.

Rhonda flicks ash from her cigarette. Today she needs to clean the napkin holders and spray down the tables, the latter of which will leave her hands smelling like Pledge Furniture Polish. The owner, no matter how hectic and hurried a rush she is in, might even drop by for a brief inspection that somehow manages to find at least one thing Rhonda had forgotten to do on her last shift. Therefore she will need to work early and work fast. Thankfully, Wednesday mornings are usually slow, with business eventually picking up by five or six when people begin eating in before it is time to go to evening church service. The corners of her mouth quirk up. She cannot remember the last time she has been to church.

Bordering Fred’s is Rite Aid and bordering Rite Aid is Lisa’s Place, where Rhonda can see Katherine’s strawberry-blonde head coming out with an armful of rug. The high-schooler unceremoniously dumps it on the sidewalk and uses her feet to smooth the folds and creases. She then returns inside, flipping the cardboard sign to O P E N. Rhonda looks down at her watch—11:00am. She takes one last drag, drops the cigarette, and grabs her oversized purse from the passenger’s seat. Her heel grinds the rest of the cigarette stub into the pavement as she gets out of the car. Time for work.