cherrymeringue

A pair of brown boots made their way down the street, the flat soles slapping against the cement. The owner of these shoes was a girl named Eliza. Although she was fairly small in size, the utter dread that filled her this morning was quite immense. She had a premonition that something or someone would throw her orderly life into the metaphorical equivalent of a paper shredder. This feeling had zapped the energy from everything but her legs, and they carried her dutifully to the market like a fine tuned machine. Eliza loved to work with a rhythm, as many things did. Order was important and so was tandem, as simple as a clock’s “t