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Salting the Snail
He threw salt at her because he hated her. Later, when people asked him, he told them all it was funny, a joke they didn’t get. It was new clothes, he said, and grimaced at their confusion. The truth was that he hated her, and called her the Snail. In the men’s room, he would laugh, two stalls in between, telling boys that worked in different departments that she was crazy, that she’d blow them if they bought her a drink at the dingy bar around the corner. He had never been there, he just heard stories.
She walked through the office building, trying not to bump into cubicles with her boxes, calling out I’ll miss yous, and I’ll e-mails. He found packs upon packs in his drawers, months of unseasoned fries churning in his stomach. He didn’t say her name and he waited until she was passed him until he took aim. She turned toward the silence.
"Did you spill something?" she asked, looking at the seasoned floor.
"No."
She turned away, hefting her boxes higher. The grainy trail followed her.
