He appraised the stainless trinkets slinked atop her sidewalk blanket. She indexed the display. She explained to him the limits of leather. Various leathers, etc. She always said, etc. It made the man sweat. And later the stench of her car seat, eaten by sun dug in by ass. She touched the rotten pears. She nailed like a key. The theater across the street was on fire but it was always on fire, darling. It was always on fire.

She dragged her son by both ears and showed him the rough-edged streets. The beaten down concrete. The dog bones, the socks. On their walk home they saw a woman rolling up a blanket of sunglasses. Some fell out of the sides. The blanketed woman looked at the mother and the son and stomped on the shades before walking away.

I needle my purses, she cursed. She wasn’t wearing her nails. It was a slug to shake her hand. The auditorium was glorious in its hesitance and the mannequins agreed. As soon as the curtain turned colors, the mother called and ordered a new jaw. Once home, she whistled on the porch and watched for the mail, the telephone pole across the street holding only sky.