She was pale as a ghost under the Taco Bell lighting,
or maybe she really was a ghost at that point, I couldn’t quite say,
because most things looked unwell in that place.
And yet, we kept coming back,
anything to beat the facebook psychosis,
the quarter-life crisis,
the social disease jitters.
I watched her sit and sip her soda,
and I could feel my shoulders getting tighter
when I thought I heard the cashier ask me,
“would you like to be buried in a bag or a box?”
“A bag?”, I questioned, puzzled by the option.
“No,” she said, “a box”.
“Okay,” I said.