The Mare

Velvet

We went to a fancy place to eat. The people there were fat ugly pigs who thought they were great. Their expressions were ugly and fat even when they were pretty and thin. I remembered this disgusting thing I heard a boy say about somebody: “She thinks her shit smells like ice cream.” I felt glad I don’t live where people think their shit is ice cream. I looked at Ginger. Why was she even here? We sat down and next to the table was a shelf of olive oil marked thirty dollars a bottle. I remembered something Ginger said to me about Republicans, how they were on the side of the most greedy rich people in the country. Right now, Ginger was looking at a menu while behind her greedy pigs laughed and stank up the air with their slit eyes and hairy hands and little red nasty mouths. I said, “This place is full of Republicans.” She said, “No, honey, probably not. This is a mostly Democrat county.” I said, “There’s a bunch of Republicans right behind you,” and she said, “How would you know by looking?” “Trust me,” I said. “They’re Republicans.”