White crystal mountains of ancient molecules. Stick out your tongue like its snowflakes, making your taste buds salivate, enhancing the flavor of everything.

Beth works in a pretzel factory. The dough churns noisily behind her. A massive steel vat with an attached dough hook. When complete, the dough then rolls out of the vat by workers and gets made into a long, never ending roll (untouched by human hands). That roll gets chopped at intervals and Beth folds these smaller roles into pretzels. Then, one by one, that make their journey on their conveyor belt into the over. The become dark brown. The factory smells like carbohydrate sin. It’s like a drug. Once out, these pretzels get brushed with a little water and salted by hand. Jeremy knows the perfect way to salt; the perfect ratio so that there’s enough, but not too much. He feels like rough crystals being held between his thumb, pointer, and middle fingers and sprinkles all over. Again and again. Over and over. 8 hours of tedium. For the love of salt.

The margarita glass turns back over with its salted rim. The green liquid gets poured inside, a lime placed on the glass. It gets added to the waitress’s tray and walked over to the table. A margarita in the dead of winter. Unbelievable, she thinks to herself. But puts on a happy face when serving it, announcing its arrival.

Ice on a snowy mountain. What they need is more salt.  But the county has run out. Up the hill there is a sick child that needs care. The ambulance cannot make it up the hill. The EMT volunteers step out into the blizzard, take the stretcher and between the four of them, trudge up the mountain, wind, snow, and ice whipping into their faces. It’s a reality like they’ve never knows; A thousand microscopic daggers attack all at once from all sides. They are careful on their footing.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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