by Virginia Backaitis

BITCH, she cut me off, cut the line and pulled right on up to the clothes collection receptacle at the Salvation Army. It’s what all those rich, fancy-car-driving, we don’t have to wait our turn types do, even when they’re trying to be decent. I was in a hurry myself, eager to part with my past; hopes and dreams poured into party dresses that I had never been treated right wearing. Bitch, now she was photographing her giveaways with her cell phone, so I got out of my car to have a word, but just as I was about to say, “A fancy red skirt suit with gold buttons don’t en-title you to special treatment,” my eyes locked in on her swag - a tux on a hanger, price tag still on it; shoes, still in a box; a man’s winter coat still in plastic wrap, a ball gown, a real ball gown, the kind Cinderella-types wear, and two small velveteen covered boxes. “You have something to say to me,” the woman looked me in the eye, her tone all self- righteous, and the expression on her face all too-good-for-you. "Sorry, I thought I knew you," I said, then walked away.


Virginia Backaitis, author of Blackberry a-buzz, writes fiction, personal essays and articles. If you're interested in reading more of her work, Google!