spiral-bound.net( Perpetuating Our Culture of Narcissism )

Knuckles pressed against her cheek, she imagines her face sunburned, stretched taut and crispy. A debate rages in the court of social etiquette presiding over her temporal cortex. Will the men move over? She loosens her grip on the wine bottle. The tension from her hand skips up her spine and curls around her neck, settling in. She doesn’t give them a chance to act and steps off the sidewalk. Bitchy, she realizes. Too late. Unable to revise the scene, she glances at her shoes.

The ground outside the liquor store is carpeted with cigarette butts. Marlboros, Newports, Camels. They cling to one another, huddled against the granite curbside. The men contribute to this ecosystem, smokestacks leaning expertly against the metal siding. She reaches the car, sees the scene from behind. Their eyes on her back, on the bottle. Five dollar Pinot Grigio. She flexes her toes, embarrassed. Sliding into the passenger seat, she tosses the wine in the back seat. Shuts the door. Locks it.

Avoiding their judgment, she fumbles through her bag and makes a pile of stray gum wrappers. The air in the car is thick and stale. She rubs a hand across her right knee three times and once down the calf. Purse thoroughly examined, she becomes interested in the hubcap of the car in the next spot. Dandelion puffs twirl in lazy tornadoes among the discarded cigarettes. Her gaze moves to her bare legs, afraid that attention out the window might initiate eye contact.

Basking in a patch of freckles on her thigh is a single pimple, angry and peaked. A half glance through the windshield confirms that the men are looking at her, nodding and laughing. The back of her hand swipes under her nose, checking for sources of humiliation. Her face is well-framed in the side mirror; for a moment, she is flattered, chancing a lick of her lips. She captures the pimple with thumb and forefinger.

The pimple swells as she squeezes, its head white and bulbous. The first attempt fails. The skin flushes red, bristling at the attempted invasion. Two swipes with her ring finger realigns each eyebrow. She doesn’t notice that she is holding her breath. Her second squeeze is more calculated, approaching the pore at an angle. The thin skin is opaque and the color of sweat-stained undershirts in the moment before it bursts. A rigid snake of sebum and cellular garbage coils against her thumbnail. Satisfaction. She pinches the skin until it oozes only blood.

Wiping her fingers on the side of the seat, she aborts a coy smile out the window and picks instead at an errant cuticle. She hates waiting in the car.