Dragging feet.

Today was the first of the 50% off sale at work, which meant a excess of ladder climbing, lifting, bending and reaching of all kinds. Moving inventory from the stock room to long folding tables in the center of the floor.

The store was hot and humid, my cat eyeliner felt greasy and itchy around my eyes and I wanted so badly to wipe it away with the back of my hand. We threw a lot of the boxes to each other, at the tables. We kicked them. We swore like men in a garage basting themselves with grease and testosterone and laughed like maniacs when a customer caught us dropping a mother of pearl.

I slapped a few HALF OFF THE ORIGINAL PRICE signs up and we sat back with a hot pizza from the place next door.

Well, come and get em.

My boss and another salesperson had a home brewed beer inside of a water bottle. I laid on the floor with my book and a bowl of fresh sliced strawberries I'd brought from home, nibbling them slowly. Strawberries have always felt like a luxury to me. So cold and tender. I love the way the freckling of seeds concentrated on the tip of the berry feels on my tongue. I listened to Beyonce, Crazy In Love and wiggled my hips a bit against the carpet to the music, swinging my feet.

Truthfully, the work day consisted of few hours of actual work. The rest was lounging, waiting to drive home with the windows down, shouting along with the staticy radio to go home and take off my pants.

The sky darkened. I crawled into a chair, he took a nap on the floor. When he woke, we drew tiny dicks on boxes of Clarks. Some with wings. Some with capes. We giggled and talked about how we'd suffer at our next job with such a long, long time of basking in such freedom for so long.

Our lives are devoid of responsibility there. We open late. We close early. We try on shoes. We watch movies. We drink. We make sex jokes. It's enviable, from the outside looking in, but my god, I miss someone expecting something from me.