A Rustle of Straw

Stiffness gives way. The bright overhead tubes hum above. I hold my ground, waiting. Nothing shifts around me—only painted grins and stacked cardboard. Slowly, I test the straw at my wrist. It scrapes dryly against the paper tag pinned to my chest. Crisp. Hollow. I can turn my head. The aisle stretches out, quiet and still.

1 Nauk