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!


Madam Z said...

Wow! I've been going to the wrong Salvation Army! There are no tuxes or ball gowns at my local branch. No jockeying for a place in the collection line, either.

Good story, Virginia.

shmaud said...

Too bad they couldn't salavage each other! Lovely story.

Anonymous said...

One heart melted, one to go! Lovely story. Thank you, Virginia.