she’s a yoga teacher with a yawning diastema and her hydro bill is coming due – a political topic, yes, but one of great importance.
at the windowless Government Edifice downtown she applies for a place in a queue.
a bespectacled bureaucrat guides the crowd with a pair of light-up airport runway batons, apparently at random; the bedraggled parishioners shift this way and that at his beckoning.
eventually our yoga teacher is shuffled into the right line and she gets out her credit card.
her limit is barely enough but she covers it, the hydro bill is paid, and she’s given a special tattoo on her left ankle to prove it.
at the yoga studio, the lights are still on, electrons coursing through the veins behind the walls.
the next morning her credit card bill comes due – the sum escalating in real-time, even as she reads it.