The trees are pink overhead, and the sky stretches beyond the blurring branches, milky like a death-filmed eye. My nerves are frayed, and my lips red and swollen, caught again and again between my teeth. I fumble with the crate, and my companion’s eyeless face turns towards me.
“I’ve got it,” I say quickly, reassuring both of us.
I don’t like it here, and my mind drifts to the portal behind me. I want to go home.
The buyer arrives and we make simultaneous movements, quickly exchanging delivery and payment.
“Until next time,” I lie.
The crate thrums, impatient.
NOTES:
Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: crate, nerve, simultaneous. Photo by JR Korpa on Unsplash.
