At what price apathy 50 years old and I stock shelves. I don't care to do more. My bills are payed, my belly is full. Let the ambitious trouble themselves with paying the tax of wanting more. I'm good. I guess. Roberta is interesting. She calls herself Robi. She floats through the store like she's a hostess on a cruise ship. She is a world unto herself. A serene place where nothing has ever gone wrong. In her twenty years she has drank deep from the cup of life while the poison has only touched those around her. She's known suffering only third hand. A friend of a friend went wrong. She wasn't so much careful as she was blessed; watched over. I know this because she tells me little stories when we work the same aisle. She went to a club. She dated a boy. She cried because she was lonely. There's no reason for her to tell me these things. I can't help but think that she wants more than her floating. I've told her that I think she should go to church. If she doesn't find a good man she will at least find comfort. She tells me that her friend Cristy told her over drinks one night about a girl who left the bar with a guy who did ugly things to her. Cristy's friend won't ever be the same. But Robi is safe. She's above that. She drinks, has smoked some, and when I tested her she knew both Molly and uncle Cid. But she's careful. She's safe. I'm not clever, but she's young and attractive. I can't help but talk in turn. She's a child so I edit myself. Half the story of a scar. Outright lie about a tattoo. Always tell the truth about the high. The high is the best part of the story. It's the come on, the call back, the refrain that never fades, the song we sing ourselves to help us sleep. There's no reason I can think of why she should be sitting in a restaurant with me. I've given all of the signals that I'm not a good man. I've branded myself with warnings that no finer things lay down this path. But here she is across the table from me. Before paying the tab I suggest we share a Lyft and she agrees. I don't need this. Why is Autumn Grove closer than her place. I don't even know what I'm saying. Why am I talking? I just want to touch her cheek. Maybe her lips. I don't know. Why am I still talking? For fuck sake! Why is she getting out of the car? Don't get out of the car. Don't give me the choice. We've reached our perfect moment. There are two things I can see in the light of her eyes; one, she's looking forward to telling Cristy a first hand story and two, she doesn't know how rum is supposed to taste. I carefully put my hands around her throat and extinguish that light.