Margot ~

Margot
 ••• Margot stood in Aisle 13 for...basically...ever. Her lips pursed, brow knotted as she debated between the excellent-sounding canned Tomato soup (low sodium!) and the even more enticing last can of Chicken-and-Stars (low fat). The vacant shelves surrounding the lonely pair of canned-overly-processed soup . Price tags declaring dollar amounts for...open spaces. This illness had really taken a toll on the town. By this point, even the *Vampires* were getting sick. The store was being run by one lonely, also sick, manager. All the stock people had called off. All the cashiers, too. Everybody was sick, and nobody could fault the poor, coughing, Manager for not being able to run the deli, stock the shelves, ring out the customers, and collect the carts in a timely manner by himself. Most people were thankful the damn store was even open. Margot settled for the last can of Chicken-and-Stars and made a mental note to take Aiden up on hiring a housekeeper to come in and cook for them. Even *if* they needed someone from out of town. She felt a bit nauseated, but had otherwise begun feeling less like death itself. Her throat still hurt, but the fever was abating...a bit. So she nominated herself to make a short grocery run. Aiden was in no shape to play caretaker anymore. Once she rung out her purchases and walked out of the half-functional sliding glass door, the withy seer cast a glance from one side to the other. A stray plastic bag blew down the sidewalk past her like a tumbleweed. The streets were empty. The sky's color waned as evening approached-- an ambient blue-gray-violet beyond brumous clouds full of niveous gifts. The city was a ghost-town. Breathing out a wisp of fog as she sighed in the stillness, Margot's wild hair tugged sideways in the wind. She shivered briefly and buried her nose in the stiff collar of a Camel-colored jacket. The paper handle of her grocery bag hung from the curl of her slender digits, bottom bowing out precariously under the weight of her liquid-dense diet for the next few days. With a free hand, she retrieved a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket. Holding the slim box with a practiced hand, she lifted it to her lips and used them to draw out the length of a slender gold-filtered, black cigarette. Folding the box closed, she dropped it in the same pocket and drew out a lighter. She still felt sick enough that smoking felt unappetizing, but it *did* feel good to have some sense of normalcy in all of this. She flicked the lighter and lit the tip of the twiggy smoke. Drew a puff, and then coughed disgustingly. As she shoved the lighter back in her pocket, Margot let the cigarette drop to the ground and stamped it out. Another day. As the fit of coughs jostled her ribs, she groaned between. The end of this (for her) was near. She ought to have known better. But that was  Margot. She loved the things that were bad for her. Death was coming soon enough. It wasn't this illness-- or the smoking-- that would be the end of her...but she couldn't seem to recall what it was that would be. With the thought passing easily (anxiety free, even!), she glanced down the street. Someone would be approaching shortly, and no matter what path she took home, they would cross. She waited. •••