Susan

Susan Hischman was a dour woman, with a sour pout perpetually residing below the long nose that some might call regal, while others would simply label "big". Her salt-and-pepper hair was cropped above her shoulders in a bob, shoulders draped in one of her closet's many plaid shirts. It wasn't with some mannish intent that her jeans rode so high upon her wide hips, but simply a side effect of pants with such an oil-lamp curvature.

The canine usually wheezing at her side was some mish-mash of dog DNA. Large lumps of benign growth gave his torso a mutant appearance but did little to distract from the unsettling fact that the dog's expression mirrored his owner. Children did not ask to pet Petey on the street. His frown seemed unnatural and disturbing, as if the muscles permitting such a human emotion had been surgically implanted.

And that is why, had the brown bulgy envelope been a living creature with eyes and awareness—some papery slug crossing the sidewalk, two frowns would have loomed down at it. Petey's nose left little wet spots on it before Susan stiffly stooped and snatched it away. Had it lain a foot away and not in her direct path, Susan would have passed it by. Like many grudging altruists, she would retrieve litter only when it presented itself so ineluctably. She crinkled up her long nose and gambled a quick peek inside, expecting some disintegrating mush of formerly edible substance.

Standing just feet from the dumpster her quick peek was masochistic curiosity, like opening the yogurt container plumbed from the depths of a refrigerator cleaning. What repelling repugnance might it hold?

As Petey spattered the blue steel of the trash bin with yellow, Susan's frown grew roots and bent to acrobatic depths on her chin. From the envelope bloomed the crinkled corners of currency. Hundreds of 20 and 50 dollar bills formed a thick wad between her finger-bones. She blinked, twice.

This new, deep frown remained rooted the whole walk home, holding the envelope at arms length like a particularly ripe doo-bag. She dropped it on her end-table, which was empty, clean, barren as a windswept desert. It's brown existence was like some animal dropping in the room's aesthetic. Petey was oblivious to the envelope's obtrusiveness as he slopped water ravenously from his chrome dish.

Susan abruptly decided it was time for bed, snapping away from the table and marching towards her toothbrush. Perhaps the morning's light would dissipate this illusion and return that sense of routine that fed her frowns. Those frowns that permeated even her dreams.