A woman opened the bathroom stall, saw Amy heave a bowlful of brown and bile, and wordlessly swung it shut.
“Charmed,” Amy said, the saliva threads scattering from her maw. She tried to ignore the taste of acid and truck stop coffee. On trembling arms over the seat she erased the spinning walls from her head.
Once the purging stopped Amy raised herself and sat. Chunks objectionable tangled and matted her sand curls and she sucked in breaths deep. And there, her focus resumed, to find polished men’s business shoes stood waiting in the space between the cubicle door and the beige tiles. No footsteps. She heard no footsteps at all.
Chalk Snow 