Sapphic Voices General Fiction

Tomorrow's Throwaways

The morning glare filtered in through the slits atop my Frigidaire shell to warm the concrete bed beneath me. I awoke with a healthy hunger that empty pockets and self-pity could no longer contain. I had adapted.

Around the corner, to the left, and just behind the glitter of the Ritz awaited me a glorious feast, too cold or too well-done for the uptight American Expressers. I began to dig. Fresh croissants, blueberry crepes, and a half-a-dozen half-eaten quiches -- my absolute favorite. For my reading pleasure, because I refuse to become a cultural illiterate, there was The Daily Elite, the latest issue of Business Cents, and a variety of pamphlets and analyses authored by the silver-spooned patrons of the grand hotel, and backed by their million-dollar occupations.

In addition to the items commonplace to my morning ritual, there were always those stray objects to pique the curious interest of an average Jane like me -- the highlights, if you will, of the dumpsters of the rich and famous. Lacy crimson undies with LRH stitched into the crotch, a tiny glass vial with traces of white powder clinging to the mucus-encrusted rim, and tattered scarlet-stained bed sheets that the housekeepers wouldn't dare to try and clean -- or question.

But I did. I thought about them all. I wondered if the people belonging to the items equaled the characters I'd been creating in my head. I really wanted to know why Karen had thrown out the love letter from your loving Steven, and if any of the innumerable deflated condoms strewn about played a role in their last good-bye. I sat amongst a pungent pile of dried-up roses and knew the one who sent them had a wife and child elsewhere.

But the kitchen manager dutifully shoo-shooed me from my breakfast table at precisely 10:30 am, interrupting my mind's soap opera and returning me once again to the isle of the single file, the harsh reality of the unemployment office, just two blocks away. It's such a fine line, isn't it? Life's so fickle sometimes. And on the tail end of that thought, something from my memories of that other life makes me think I probably knew an LRH. Probably was an LRH. But that matters to no one these days, least of all me.

If you have enjoyed Jo Anna Guerra's "Tomorrow's Throwaways", then please be certain to e-mail her at  Jo_Anna_Guerra[at]excite.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of Jo Anna Guerra's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.

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