After Chen Chen
I haggle with Jesus everyday like an unsatisfied customer trying to get a discount. Is there a return policy on frenzied thoughts that manifest in shaking limbs and bouncing knees? What about feelings of existential dread? Jesus rolls his eyes like a teenage girl chewing hubba bubba behind the counter. I was distracting him from his talk with Spirit, apparently they dance together on sundays, a never ending salsa dance or maybe limbo. It wouldn’t surprise me if they tweet each other using red salsa girl emoji. He says he has to get the manager. I ask how long that will take. He said it might take awhile. The manager is busy collecting bottles of tears. I asked why. Jesus said he likes to remember. I don’t get it. The customer is always right so obviously I demand to see the manager once more, my fingertips dancing on the counter. Jesus gives Spirit a look. Spirit leaves. Spirit has bleached hair. Her hair is up in a high ponytail, a tattoo of a dove is behind her ear. She obviously whispers under her breath about how much of a pain I am. Spirit comes back. She tells me the manager can’t come to the front right now, smacking her lips and reaching for her lipgloss. I ask if he really exists. They stare at me, mouths agape. Spirit drops her lip gloss and it spills on the floor. They call security, a beefy young boy dressed in a black suit sees me out, and I notice he has holes in the back of his blazer and small eggshell feathers peep out. All I wanted was to see the manager.