Gloria Gillory

The sun streaming through the window dances across my face, I hate mornings. I don’t want to get up but it’s my turn to do the shopping, I hate mornings.  I dislike the way they come every day to remind you they are endless and you are not. I despise the way they bring back mixed memories of waking up next you your beautiful lover, and waking up to a lonely home after the passing of a loved one. I hate mornings.

Shirt, pants, shoes, glasses, coat and scarf… maybe I’ll wear a hat. Now I’m ready to mingle with the early risers and pretend like I care what the folks at the farmers market think of the government making super food. I like super, super means I can save the world in a leotard and over-the-pants speedo without the fear of ridicule because I’m super goddamn it. This isn’t any regular sandwich, no, this a super BLT right here… sorry folks, it’s still too early for me.

I can hear someone walking down the stairs; I don’t want to talk to anyone just yet. Good thing I had this super-fun-slide installed under my desk, see told you super was cool. The ride down to the garage is fraught with cold wind rushing past and blowing off my hat, and I forgot I parked really close to the slide. After a few tears and whispered curses to the front wheel, I’m up and pushing the bike across the driveway and onto the street.

The farmers market is fully set up and people are haggling for the lowest price on kiwi and beets. The corner bakery is pushing out product so fast Henry Ford would be proud, little old ladies walk around in knitted caps clutching their purses close. A man and a woman walk hand in hand, she is on her phone and he is staring at the La La Lemonade stand girl work up a bouncy sweat squeezing lemons.

A police man chuckles with an old friend holding a handful of cashews at the ready, a little girl with beautifully big baby blue eyes stares at me, I smile. Crap she’s selling candy, she’ll be dangerous in her teens, and I buy two boxes. After forking over some cash she walks away and I notice a strange woman. Black clad leather demon smoking a long cigarette, her almond eyes lined in white pencil beckon me.

“Hello, what brings out in this frigid weather wearing that?”

“You are in grave danger,” she says in a French accent.

“Oh is that right, and how would you know?”

“I am supposed to know, Solace.”

“Have we met?”

“Of course not you silly boy, but he never stops going on about you.”

“Who?”

“Byron,” she says with a wicked smile “but of course you already knew that. He would kill me if he knew I was telling you that he will not stop until you are his… or dead.”

“I’m sure you get a kick out of saying that. I would tell you to give him a message but then you would have to explain this little meet up.”

She blows smoke in my face and giggles horribly, “I can see why he wants you.”

“I have to go now, thanks for the warning.”

“This was no warning, I have money down that he guts you the first chance he gets. We may never meet again Solace Arrives, au revoir.”

“Goodbye… umm?”

“Gloria Gillory.”