CONVENIENCE
CONVENIENCE And so he sat. He sat in the convenience store, lights off, staring straight ahead, mouth agape. The cat played idly on the large front sill of the display window, rolling and clawing at her toy, as sun shone through the dusty window. The air was still and musty. Without much movement, a fine layer of silt had settled on everything. His jaw had mostly healed, but the store remained a complete wreck. The candy display was toppled, packets of chewing gum and chocolate bars scattered on the dirty linoleum floor. The small shelf near the fridge lay on its side, dirty cans of soup here and there. The fridge was dark and still, no erratic hum of the near-broken motor, now holding only terribly rancid milk and cream. Regular customers pounded on the door and windows, yelling for cigarettes, chips, sodas. Delivery men knocked at the rear, their carts loaded with goods that would never be delivered into the store. The phone rang and rang. And he continued to sit up