andare in bianco

just a sample for tired eyes.

He stared blankly ahead of him. Potato chips. Salty, delicious, hell on cotton chops. The bag was bright and colorful, the image of a cartoon tiger lazily resting on the pillar-esque brand name glared with a passive seething at Michael as he stood in the grocery store aisle, staring blankly ahead of him at his selections.

There were organic chips also. These were more natural color tones, revisiting an autumn leaf amongst the swirls of human-injected colors. The bag was made of something recycled, making it loud from the simplest touch. It was healthier, or so that's what Michael had come to believe of anything with the words 'organic' spewed across it.

It was also more expensive; two dollars higher. While that mattered little to Michael in this particular case, he had come to think that "green" products might have been the saving grace of the system he existed in, not to mention a luxury reserved for the middle class. The rest, Michael and his fellow nameless legions, would be stuck with the same processed, artificial, but cheap, foods that they had been ramming down their throats since birth.

A girl in bright blue leggings and a Pantera tee-shirt walked down the aisle, stepping aside from Michael and not even shooting him a second look. Her a*s caught Michael's eye; he popped his knuckle and wondered when he would sleep with someone again, wondered what it would be like to sleep with her. She was young, he could tell by the naiivety in her raised arm as she swiped a box of cookies off of the top shelf of the aisle. Hormones in food. That had to be the cause of all of this. Too many fifteen year olds roaming the streets of his city, busting out of their shirts and sheep herding the males they encounter into dangerous hog basins of moral abandonment.

He grabbed the organic chips. "F**k the two bones," he whispered to himself, hoping oddly that the young girl had heard him and would strike up a conversation over his use of the word "bones" to describe his money or his obvious disdain for quantitative oppressions. Neither happened, in fact she was exiting the aisle. He stared at her a*s again, any sense of nonchalant behavior absent. Wondering what it would feel like to have her a*s up against him, wondering what it would be like to lay in a bed with her, what her views were in regards to organic chips or if she knew how to fire a gun.

No, but that couldn't be the case. He couldn't cuddle after a f**k. It was possible once, in fact it was almost needed. Michael would cling to their bodies like a newly-made orphan to the corpse of his lukewarm mother. The sex was sex; afterwards he was investing himself into some spiritual plane that he had dreamed up on all his own. It was a passive form of punishment; he was weighing out ways to kill himself without ever actually dying by his own hand. Spooning, she on top, however it had to be; to not feel the secondary warmth of a body seemed to make or break the sex's appeal at all.

Not anymore. He didn't want to be touched. "Roll over, please," he would say, "if you lay like that, my arm falls asleep. Sorry." So many apologies.