The Text

It was the kind of afternoon where texts accumulate, ding after ding ignored. An hour later what she reads makes her stop walking, midway between her car and apartment door. Effective immediately she has no job. All restaurants and bars are closed, by order of the Governor. While the impact of the news forces its way into her thoughts, heaviness settles upon a darkness that’s already there. Her bank account is nearly empty, and rent is due in fourteen days. Suddenly she has no appetite, but her daughter won’t understand. Breakfasts? Plenty of cereal. Lunches? Buy cheap bread for PBJ’s. Dinners? Don't know. She resumes walking, eyes unfocused, slower. Not thinking. Just walking.