The Wake

This was it, the final day of the smoker study. A plain jane waiting room, in one of the university medical facilities, Marnie sat. A wide array of people were there, fatties, skinny bitches, and people well on their way to either. It was a comfort to see that other than being present, there was no way to tell they were smokers. Well, most of them did twitch, or fiddle, or squeam, but there was really no way to tell.

It was important that she get past this final round. There were 500 beautiful bucks waiting for her once it was done. She sucked down two cigarettes waiting for the bus and another on the walk over. She reeked of cancer and looked like hell. Her eyes were bloodshot from a night full of stupid internet …

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Apparently, the appearance of a wordsmith was like the second coming of Christ. Susie didn’t rave about it on the bus ride over, yet Marnie could see anticipation in the way she sat upright and clinged to the handrail. All this for some guy who told tall tales while scamming people for food and money? He was probably homeless and his words were nothing more than the result of being beaten down for a lifetime. His sanity was cracked, she was sure of it; she was determined to think so. What was Marnie anticipating? A scraggly, rancid, plump old man who didn’t know up from down. She anticipated the hipsters who fancied themselves his disciples.

The bus hit a pothole, didn’t even bother to swerve out of the way. Marnie and Susie were shocked out of …

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Life has always been easy for Marnie Williams. Her mother was never a crack whore and her father never hit anyone nor anything in his life. Both her parents were relatively no-fuss kinda people. Their home was in a quiet suburb and had a good sized lawn and patio adorned with an oversized chrome “hungry man” grill out back. The refrigerator was always stocked with healthy and meaty options, and the kitchen was neither too dirty nor freakishly clean. The walls were painted up and down with creamish colors and hung with an odd mix of modern art and homey Rockwell prints. Sometimes her mother went crazy and gorged herself on fake flower arrangements. There was a lived-in clutter to the house; anyone would have called cozy and comfortable. To Marnie, however, it was far …

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Marnie took her time walking through the campus, being careful of where the sun hit the pavement, doing her best to keep close to the trees. She couldn’t help the humidity, but she could stay underneath the canopy provided by rows and rows of green. It was the one thing she appreciated, among other things, during the languid summer months. Shade, air-conditioning. If she had those two things, then she was that much closer to being content.

A biker in a hurry zipped past her. She felt the wind he created, along with a fine shower of sweat that splashed against her face. Thank god her mouth was closed.

She stumbled as he flew by, and smacked herself in a hurry to wipe the sweat from her face. Damn bikers never looked where they were going, he …

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Her sunglasses, perched atop her cranium, pushed back the matted mass of hair that collected round her forehead. A thick layer of moist film on her face plastered stray clumps of curls here and there, which she wiped away with oil secreting fingers.

It was hot. The thin cotton of her shirt stuck to her skin like cling wrap, so wet with sweat, her decorative bra was visible. The embroidered pink and periwinkle blue flowers pressed through the fabric like an embossed pattern. Her barely there shorts did nothing to alleviate the intense heat that assaulted her system. The way her thighs rubbed together while she walked created a sticky paste and set her off, as discreet as she could, digging and wiping, only for more to slick her skin there minutes later. …

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