By: Tammy L. Breitweiser

The salt shaker leaps from the counter and clatters. The granules form a spiral on the yellow linoleum floor. Among the curls of age, the white crystalline substance is a winding stream of exfoliant. No waste in this house so it becomes a  makeshift cleanser rubbed in tiny circles with a damp rag. I sit back on my heels and use the corner of the pink rag on my cheek scratching away the skin.

Time is leaking. The coffee spilled, the toast is burnt, and my shower is cold. The sighs escape at each edge I skirt. The cleaning window has expired.

The schedule needs to be back on track so I leave at the specified time for maximum efficiency. On the train, I read a story about salt. A man wanted to talk to a female in a restaurant so he stole all the salt shakers one by one and put them in his pockets. He left one on his table so she had to ask him for it. After he made the date he went to his trunk to replace the mineral containers.

My wool sweater reminds me to scrub the floor again to lift the espresso stain when I get back from my run at the end of the day. I close my eyes, sway,  and imagine the zipper of my neon green running jacket so I can be seen in the dark.