Creative Writing: Walton's Drug Store

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My eyes fly open, vision blurry, head aching. I am staring at the ceiling. Why am I lying on the floor? My left hand crosses in front of my eyes on its way to my throbbing temple.
Blood.
I drag myself to my feet with the help of the red wing back chair saved from the dumpster while cleaning out my grandmother’s attic so many years ago. Not really red, more crimson like the shiny pool congealing on my antique Turkish rug.
That blood is never going to come out.
Stumbling into the kitchen, I hear the tell-tale click of hard soles on a bamboo floor.
Black leather flats. These are not my shoes.
Black ankle length cigarette pants. Not my pants.
Crisp white button front shirt.
Whose clothes am I wearing? Why am I dressed like Laura Petrie from …show more content…

10 AM Pick up insulin and sunscreen at Walton’s Drug Store.
Then back home for an exciting day of laundry, washing breakfast dishes, loading up the crock pot and drinking more coffee.

The dog isn’t barking his fool-head off so he must be at the groomers. Maximus barks all day. He barks at every cat, squirrel and starling that dares set foot over the threshold and into our yard. A Rottweiler trapped in the body of a Pomeranian he stands at an imposing 7 ¾ inches tall and weighs nearly 6 pounds. Maximus was a gift from my ex. Pets are not appropriate …show more content…

I dig in my purse and find my copy of the New York Times crossword puzzle, carefully completed in purple ink. For 20 plus years Phyllis and I have been meeting once a week to drink coffee, work on the Times crossword puzzle and bitch about our lives. For the last few years we have met at Jimmy’s Donuts, ever since Melody’s Donuts closed and before that it was Donut Heaven which sadly, burned to the ground as the result of a grease fire. Phyllis and I have been through, my divorce, her husband’s death, the horror of having our jobs outsourced and the humiliation of re-entering the dating world after age 40. $6.50 a week and a donut versus the $75 fifty-minute hour I would get from a professional therapist, it’s a no brainer.
I find the insulin is in the fridge. A bag from Walton’s, bearing a bright green W surrounded by blue daisy like flowers, is hanging on the back of a dining room chair. Inside is the sunscreen along with a copy of Woman’s World magazine featuring a Portobello, bacon and grilled onion Angus burger on the cover. I must have been hungry at the drug

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