Equality’s Fiber

By: Isabelle Morgan

God, it’s heavy. All lodged in my intestine. Packing tighter and then tighter, fermenting, emanating as disappointing puffs of what I can only assume is comprehensive to decomposing, diffusing, death. The smell of ass. Another pound to what’s weighing these days.  

God, it’s early. Skin tense and goose-bumped against the chilled morning porcelain. Squinting to squat back into consciousness as swollen sleep compresses my eyes, yet no movement. Gas is all that passes my naked, shivering cheeks. Morning keeps going, time continues with the sun, and not my constipation. So, I spoon more food in, chew, and swallow, adding to the piled-up indigestion, because conveniently, the fuel has already been pulled from that blocked condensing excretion. Dress in loose and forgiving baggy drapes that rest just below my bulging waist. It won’t be convenient, but at some point in the day,  

Hopefully, in a moment between my many classes, an urge will weaken my knees, take control of my spirit, and provide a release that sends shocks, impending waves, vibrating all the way up, and tip over the tear the day has been building and teasing at the edge of my left eyelid. Then, yesterday will spin, I swear it must get dizzy partnering paper in that weird water dance, and just as suddenly, it’s gone. But satisfaction is stifled, strangled by a sigh of recollection: I’ll have to deal with today’s load tomorrow.  

Already packed full of new shit. 

God, it's only 10 past 7, cynicism must be gravity's companion. 

Equality isn’t the answer, he states. 

I stop what I am doing, so I can look him in the eyes as he continues.  

People are different, and needs are never the same.  

Yes, I agree, but he is too confident, too sure he is correct, and that I couldn’t possibly offer up anything to debate. So, I disagree,  

Once you start distinguishing these differences, opinions will rank and tear any platform of equality away. They will decide which parts of you are too much or lacking. We aren’t the same, but the base value of any human should be worth as much as yours or mine, no, more.  

A customer interrupts his next line of reason I was prepared to dispute, but a glaring regular returns me to work; the customer comes first. His girlfriend is ahead of me, too.  

I’m hungry. What do you want to order? 

He finds me and asks after the rush had peaked, the staff just catching their breath,  

I want something wet and confusing. 

His eyes crease, and a smile laced with teeth tilts with his head. 

Huh, I like my food one noted, bland, like cheese pizza, or Mac and cheese, but I want other things to be wet and complicated. It’s not confusing. 

Our stare stretches, not time; this is what temperature measures. 

Yes, I agree. But that is not a meal we can share. 

A wave over his shoulder lets me know a box and a check are required.  

The restaurant is closed; nobody is eating. 

Equality is never that funny.

I need a cigarette, I tell him. 

He nods and adds before the door closes, 

I can sweep, and you can go home when you finish the dishes. 

I smile, already pruning.