Chapter 2 - The Friction of Paper
Across the cramped, dimly lit kitchen, a wooden dining chair squeaked under a shifting weight.
Martha sat with her back rigid, her posture painfully perfect.
The cheap, synthetic fabric of her floral blouse pulled taut across her broad shoulders.
The late morning light filtered through a window crusted with cooking grease.
It caught the dust motes dancing lazily in the stagnant air.
It also illuminated the stack of crisp, green bills resting on the scratched wooden tabletop.
Martha raised her right hand, her joints slightly swollen with age.
She pressed her thumb against her lower lip, wetting the dry pad of her skin with a quick dart of her tongue.
Flick.
A twenty-dollar bill snapped sharply against the table.
Flick.
Another bill joined the growing pile, perfectly aligned with the first.
The rhythmic, dry sound of paper friction filled the space between the two women.
Martha didn’t look up.
Her eyes remained fixed on the currency, tracking the serial numbers as if they were a holy text.
Her jaw was set in a tight line of grim, unapologetic satisfaction.
Elara’s shadow fell across the warped floorboards.
The dark silhouette inched toward the dining table, wavering slightly.
The red swelling on Elara's skin seemed to burn hotter with every scrape of the paper.
She opened her mouth to speak.
May you like
Her throat was completely dry, lined with sandpaper and rising panic.
She swallowed hard, trying to force moisture back into her vocal cords.
