by Christina Ingram
As you stare at my name tag through unfocused eyes, I try to pretend you are chewing on gum and not merely playing with your own toothless gums with your blackened tongue. You smile and stumble forward, as if the triumph of putting together the nine letters of my name into a word is too much for your drug-abused body to handle. It is the little victories that count. I step back from you as though you were a pool of blood inching towards my shoes, something murky and vile. You ask me where I hid the coupons, accusingly, as if I am personally to blame for your inability to find them at the store entrance. I point politely towards the doors and hope you continue walking through them.
Christina Ingram is in her fourth year at Oregon State University where she's working to complete her degree in Liberal Studies with a minor in English.