Spice Girls

 

On this mid-afternoon, the lights were kept off at the small roadside convenience store. While he wasn’t technically the manager, no one else was around. It was completely empty when he came in; nobody had apparently opened the shop, or closed it the evening before. There was a note taped above a small silver bowl—the kind normally employed as fruit bowl in most homes—by the register which had scribbled on it, lazily, in black marker, “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need”; it was filled with cash and coins, which no one bothered to take. After finishing his other tasks he solitarily organized the money into the register and took a place behind the counter, appreciating the clink each little piece of change made as it fell in place, joining the rest; the sharp ding as he pulled the register shut. He then settled into a well-fashioned ornate mahogany rocking chair behind the counter which, while by no means new, was reasonably sturdy and in fairly good condition. His magnificent, blond locks draping down the headrest, almost to the floor; his frail, anorexic body sinking deep into its back, forming a convex as he subtly arched forward. 

He enjoyed the dusty little space better illuminated by the soft radiance of a descending sun, rather than the harsh fluorescents anyway. He’d opened up a couple windows to let a warm summer breeze in, brushing the peeling white paint off his finger when he went to sit back down. All was well, all was at peace. He was beginning to rock himself asleep when the bell chimed, a rare visitor; a customer walked in. Arnold popped open an eye for a second to see who had crossed his threshold. It was Cinnamon, named for her skin. She wandered over to the refrigerator area—her oversized clothes flowing gracefully by— and picked out a can of iced tea.

“How much is it.” she asked at the counter. Arnold popped open his eye once again to see, arms still folded across his chest, one leg still atop the other, motionless aside from the slow rock of his chair.

“Says so right on the can.” He replied, and once again closed his cyclops eye.

She fished around her pockets to find a dollar, eventually dropping one in the bowl—letting it slowly fall to the bottom—since she didn’t want to break what was, at present, Arnold’s near-perfect relaxation.

“You know,” she began, “it’s not actually Arizona,” she pointed out, on the can, “it’s Ari Zona. See, the Z is capitalized.” She looked very proud of the discovery.

Arnold perked up, opened both of his eyes, squinted, and leaned forward a bit.

“Oh,” he said, “so it is.” and leaned back down again, letting himself collapse in the chair.

“Who do you think she is, Ari Zona?” she inquired, slightly peeved by his passiveness.

“It's a he, not she. Ari’s Jewish; it’s a boy’s name;” he replied; “try to remember that.”

“Oh,” she widened her eyes slightly, “huh.”

Cinnamon went over to a slightly ragged green plush chair in the far corner, setting her drink on an old glass-topped chess table beside it. They were saleable—indecipherable price tags dangling off them both—but nobody had ever bought either; at this point they were impermanent fixtures. She took her backpack off—setting it beside the chair—and sat down, then began rummaging through the thing—relatively new but well worn, her pink Hello Kitty bookbag had seen a lot of use in middle school. She produced a book: Lolita, and began digging into it.

Arnold did sometimes wonder if being around him made Cinnamon feel older.

“Lo-li-ta,” he sounded out each syllable in his mouth, “like loli, right?” he said with a smirk.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but I don’t know what that means...” she said with innocent eyes.

“I can show you, if you want.” he said with a lascivious grin.

“I’d really like that, this book is hard enough.” she said as he got up and walked over.

“Arniiiieeeeee.” Cinnamon yelled over to him as the sun began to set, and the light in the store grew strange and enigmatic as its hue deepened.

He looked up, confused for a moment, as if he was trying to remember something; “Yo.” he then replied back, setting his book down. He was privately calculating when the exact right moment to turn the lights on would be.

“You don’t eat much besides cereal, right. It doesn’t look like you eat much at all.” She teased. She was only teasing, she was a little too young to be appropriately sensitive in these matters. 

“Yeah,” he shamefully admitted, “what about it?”

She hesitated a moment.

“Well...my parents keep talking about this place in town, Wahlak, I think.  I wonder if you could take me...they never take me anywhere nice. Not tonight, its a school night; I haven’t even started my homework yet.” she said in her cute, barely pubescent voice.

“Your parents trust me.” he said.

“Yeah, but…” she seemed a little nervous.

“I’ve shown you so many new things. Interesting things about your body and mine. You’ll be fine.” he said

“I’m being serious; I can’t.”

In their room, later that night, they were scrolling through the chat messages they’d exchanged with Saffron. She was online, but, she wasn’t “available”. Probably talking to someone else. It’s fine, they thought, it’s fine; she needs her own time. 

They pulled up an online game to play; they didn’t know what else to do. They soon grew anxious, and was pretty horny anyways, so they signed off, masturbated, used the bathroom afterwards, and went to look for their book after getting back. They checked everywhere, but it seemed to have, as their parents used to say, “magically disappeared”. While absentmindedly picking up dirty clothes and rearranging piles of miscellaneous papers and books and other things, their mind kept going back to Saffron. They couldn’t stop thinking about what was going on with them. I mean she’s never said it, they thought, but at this point she’s pretty much my, you know. Even they didn’t want to say it, knowing, with intentional ignorance, that she probably didn’t really think of them that way. But a thought like that would snap them out of this hysterical nightmare, where every text or chat message they shot to her reënforced their love, and every patient moment waiting for a reply tested it. She always managed, even if only barely. 

They secretly knew that they weren’t as high on her list of priorities, as she was on theirs. They knew that their replies, instantaneous, concise, meticulous and anxiety filled, would never be reciprocated. They knew that if they talked, like really talked, what they might say to each other in candid conversation could be some of the last things they ever gets to tell her. They knew all that, and still let it go on, because they had nobody else to talk to, nobody else to mouth off with about their parents or work, nobody else to comfort them at night. She felt so sorry for them, she had for all these years, ever since they first told her—and she was the first person they ever told—what they were going through at home; but her care did nothing but keep them down, keep them from growing out of their high school habits. 

She was always looking out for them, back then. It was her who convinced them to eat something when they had starved themself for more than 30 days. It was her who, when she found out about the cutting, made sure that they were always safe when they did it, and always had someone to talk to if they felt the urge to do it again. It was her who gave them physical affection, when they were truly all alone. Pity sex, what an ugly phrase. She never had any intention to take them seriously, but how could they not her, when she was the only one to ever show them love in the whole world. 

They went to bed late, passing out with their phone in hand. They had a long text prepared, but never managed to send it. Every night, regardless of how much or how little they talked in the day, they would always text Saffron the same thing, “Goodnight,” followed by, “I love you.” Tonight, they seemingly forgot.

Saffron hadn’t noticed.

Arnold was awoken by his ringtone. He reached over to the bedside table before feeling his phone already on his palm, and answered, hardly conscious

“Hey...” the voice on the other side said.

“Cinnamon? What’s up,” he checked the time, “its only twelve o’clock.”

“I don’t know...” she said.

“Uh-huh...” he yawned.

“You forgot something at the store yesterday, I figured I’d come over and return it.”

“Alright, whatever;” he grumbled; “just come in.”

Arnold pulled something on really quick and sat down on his bed. He heard soft footsteps down the hall and up the stairs, then a knock. He didn’t answer, so she let herself in. The hinges on his door squealed as it slowly opened. Cinnamon gingerly closed the door behind her and began walking towards him, handing over his copy of Lolita.

“I almost forgot to give this back.” She told him.

“Thanks anyway; I was looking for it last night.” he said.

“I already read it years ago, by the way.” She said, and smiled. She sat down next to him

“Should’ve asked for another book.” he said.

They sat there for a pleasant moment, looking into each other’s eyes and smiling; laughing almost.

"Like, what else could I have possibly been reading?" she asked, quizzically.

Arnold was about to speak when Cinnamon drew out her open palm and hit him across the face faster than he could process. He could feel the smack sting against his cheek, then the tantalizing grip of her stare as she began to grow broader and more menacing in the face of his recoiling body. He bit his lip and stared back up into her eyes, now well above his.

“Harder.” he said. He was becoming aroused.

“I don’t feel like it.” She said, suddenly disinterested. She crossed her arms and sat back down; looking out the window, off into the distance. “Arnieeee..,” she mimicked a pre-teen's voice, “...where’d you even get that from? I had to improvise; I didn't want to say 'Hey Arnold'” She chuckled.

“It’s not like you did any better,” they said, “I mean, is this a cooking show or what, Saffro-”

She lunged at them, holding them tight by the neck.

“That’s NOT my name!” She yelled as she bore down on them harder. They were gasping, their vision growing hazy. “Say my fucking name.”

“C-c-cinnamon…” they barely managed to eek out.

“Close you fucking whiny faggot.” She squeezed tighter. They struggled to think straight, being stuck in their own twisted heaven. She could feel the erection raging through their pants. They could feel her's.

“...mommy” they wheezed.

“LOUDER!” she ordered.

“MOMMY!” they squealed with an admixture of pain and pleasure; their eyes closing, whole body drawing up as the words left their mouth.

“That’s fucking right.” she said as she let go, drew her arm far back, and slapped them so fiercely that they hoped it would draw blood; or, at least leave a mark afterwards.

She was on top of them now; they were coughing and breathing heavy, hardly able to contain their excitement. “Slice me up…” they said, in between hacky breaths.

“I will sweetie, but you have to be patient; when Mommy’s ready.” She said tenderly, running her hand through their hair. 

They paused their breathing and got up a little, looking slightly concerned.

“We’re still getting dinner after this, right?” they asked.

“Yeah...” she said confused, in between heavy breaths.

“Ok.” they said, and relaxed again.

She took a moment to catch her breath, letting herself calm down, wiping the hair off her face and tucking it behind the ears; then, once she’d regained her composure, she slid out a Chef’s knife tucked underneath her waistband; slowly drawing it in front from behind her back. Their eyes grew as she undid their pants, pulled down their underwear, and drew out their penis; sliding the silvery edge under the head of their erect cock.