Future Blues

Groaning, shoulders slumping, Heather lowered her head and hit her forehead. She’d forgotten the friggin’ bag. Damn, damn, damn. The day was becoming sub-prime in a slide.

People thronged past. She faced a rack of bags. So, options, text someone to bring a bag. Go back and get it, but time and money, time and money. Five Georges for porting home and back. Steal one. Buy a new one. Get caught stealing a bag was a dime. Who to text to bring one? Everyone else had ported out on holi, but she had to work. Not friggin’ far, not friggin far at all. Welcome to her life.

So buy one. Gawd, two Georges. Were these getting more expensive? Why did she forget the friggin’ bag? Stupid. She slapped her temple. Stupid.

The bag was bought but that just started a whole other chain, syncing it to her head — and another George, gawd — and this bag wasn’t listed, forcing her to walk through the store and compare the items, like, manually, like some factory worker or some girl at a jewelry counter, because there was no list in the bag to tell her to pick something up and put it in. Good thing, sync did bring up her checking and budget so she knew what could be spent. Least the bag was telling her that. Wouldn’t want to exceed the budg and bring on the wrath.

And she had to remember what was on the list. Shit wasn’t easy. Like, did she need milk this week? The frig always told the list what she needed. She didn’t know. So she didn’t know. Probably all kinds of messed up. Who knows if the syncing was right? She hadn’t done one in all kinds of yesterdays. Didn’t even know if the bag was porting it to the right place. She peered into the small purple cloth sack. It was all gone, all right, but where? She could recall it all, go home, she shoulda just gone home and got her bag, suck up the time and Georges, way it was going, she would have only be out one or two Georges that route and a whole lotta less stress and aggravation, which she already was feeling, having won the lottery to work a holi weekend.

Ah, fuck it. Heather lowered her head and succumbed to getting it done, because that’s how the world work, but she couldn’t do it without multiple sighs and a pitying chorus in her head. She hated being eighty. Retirement couldn’t come soon enough.

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