FICTION | PROMPT
The Lane of Least Resistance
Paved with inherited ambitions
Wannabe Disney-era Hilary Duff.
I rub the sting from my eyes, willing the words to wriggle inside. The text wasn’t meant for me, but a feeble attempt at covering up the faux pas was.
Zipping my makeup bag close, I call my mother, updating her about an early departure. She’s tracking my flight and prefers to possess meticulous details. The best stories have them in surplus, when retold a dozen times.
Envious reactions taste coppery when relayed — tagged as success.
Flickering interchangeable numbers beguile easy escapes. Trading termini would take less than a minute. My feet march toward the right one.
I rebound from city to city, connecting people to their dream jobs. The irony would peel my soul if I stopped to think. But I learned to keep busy early on. My hands, my eyes, my mind. Not allow them to still and conjure deviations.
When they asked me who I wanted to be when I grew up, I always fetched a different answer. One that would acquire a stretched, satisfied smile.
I ticked perishable acts of selfishness, keeping the monster on life-support.
