Teeth

I had a line stuck in my head about how we are made of the same stuff that stars are made of.  It's a nice line, if a little bit cheesy. It makes us sound like we're something greater, more impressive than the brief sparks we are.

Nice line I guess, if you need it. Sometimes I think we have the destructive power of stars. We've eliminated more species than most of us can name, reshaped the planet, probably permanently changed the climate...

I guess we've done some impressive things too. I mean, we reshaped predatory creatures to be our companions and allies and made other species so dependent they can't live without us.

Maybe we share less in common with a star than with a black hole, drawing everything in blindly, not concerned with the consequences.

Or maybe I just get cranky when I'm cold; and too cheap to pay for a taxi when my crappy car won't start.

I turned up the collar of my coat, and just for a moment, press the heavy gray wool against my nose. It was my father's coat for years before it was mine, and even though it's been through considerably more wear since he died and I took it on, sometimes I imagine I can still smell him in it, or at least a whiff of the pipe he used to smoke. I've never smoked, but the smell of it makes me think of him, and that makes me feel better.

I pause to look at the street signs and make sure I'm on the right track, since I'm supposed to meet my friends about a block from here, and my phone battery lasted just long enough for me to warn them that I'm walking.

I'm pretty sure they're laughing and probably half way into their first pitcher of beer, since it was yesterday about this time that Susan was telling me about a place I could trade in my junker, and I said I would think about it. I think I may have also made the regrettable statement that I could still get a little more use out of it.

My damn car is definitely such thing as black holes might be into, because that's about all it's good for at this point; getting me into trouble.

Speaking of trouble...

Ahead of me there's a handsome woman whose crisp white suit and long matching jacket almost glow in the street light she stands under. Compared to the dark brown of her skin, it looks even whiter.  The group of men surrounding her look considerably less neat, one of them even wearing a shirt under his camo jacket that reads "Make me a sandwich, Bitch."

I'm pretty sure that's what the over bright yellowish lettering says anyway. The fact that one of them is holding a knife that has probably never seen the woods it was designed for is a bit more distracting than their 'why-can't-I-get-laid-I-don't-understand' fashion statement.

My fingers feel cold as I reach into my pocket and wrap them around my cell phone, thinking that they're going to notice when the screen doesn't light up as I call out to them, ignoring every fiber of better judgement.

"Is everything alright, Ma'am? Do you need me to call the police?"

I blame it on impulse, and thinking about being made of the things that stars are made of. Maybe I just want to live up to those noble ingredients.  Animals however are made of the same thing, and they don't suffer from such lofty and suicidal ideals. They also have better senses, which might have been enough to tell me that there was six of them, not the rough five I had at first counted. Six, and the sixth one grabs my wrist from behind and twists it until I yelp and drop the phone on the pavement, where he stomps on it.

His breath smells like beer that's gone skunky, though he seems to have drunk it anyway.

"Hey, you wanna reach out and touch someone too, huh?" He growls in my ear, shoving me forward. "Think he knows the ice queen, or is he just a jerk? Can't you see we're trying to make time here?"