I thought he was going to rape me, but he didn’t. He was selling magazine subscriptions and wanted to know could I please buy one so he could meet his quota and go home to watch Animal Planet’s special on cross-species sexual relations?
I told him no.
Shut the door. Sat on the couch, wrapped a hand around one wrist and switched, grabbed the other one. I threw myself back onto the couch. The arm of it ground into my spine. I pushed myself off the couch and to the floor. My head hit the carpet hard and I curled into a fetal position. I rolled back and forth, my shin hitting the coffee table, my elbow burning across the carpet.
There was another knock on the door and I jumped up to answer it.
Girl scouts, selling their cookies. Delicious Samoas, dipped in caramel, striped with fudge and then coated in toasted coconut. I bought three boxes and sat on the couch to eat them.
Brandi Wells has fiction in or forthcoming from elimae, Hobart, Monkey Bicycle, Lamination Colony, Wigleaf and other journals. She sometimes blogs.