Deep End Dance
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State Troopers, too. I ran down by the harbor, and I heard Sophia stopping to take hits from her asthma inhaler, before saying, ‘Death to Justin, I must find and annihilate Justin.”
“Is that it?”
Justin nodded.  “I wept as I ran, knowing my ma was nothing but toast.”
“So, you escaped?”
“Cops shot her in the hip, and a State Trooper said, ‘Sophia’s wounded, it’s all over. Justin, you can stop your running.’” 
“That’s a horrible and scary tale,” I answered, hoping the acknowledgment would end his verbal assault.
“I know it is,” he said. “But it plays like a world premiere movie in my head at midnight and now she’s stuck in a cage, scribbling grand apology letters, asking me to bring her Costco chunky Skippy, some lemon cookies, and lots of Cool Whip.”
I felt exhausted. 
“Sophia wants me to forgive her,” Justin said. “You think I should, pal?”
“No clue.” 
“I have to deal with that crap 24/7,” he said.  “Just imagine the horror.”
I nodded, tenderly patting my chest.
“You helped me by listening today, though – so thanks a lot.”
“Sure, whatever,” I answered, before we bumped fists and he wandered off, grabbing a hot dog with gobs of chili, bacon, and cheese, and approaching the DJ to request a tune. I found some water, guzzled it, and headed back to the bench, anxiety easing somewhat.
Off to the side, a barefoot social worker danced with a comely bulimic from my unit named Juniper to a Wallflower’s tune I liked. Now that Justin was gone they both waved. Although I was resentful that they hadn’t stepped up earlier, I waved back – anything to disperse the vinegar scent. 
Juniper approached and put her arm around my shoulder:
“Can I share something?” 
“Of course,” I said.
“Can I be brutally frank with you?”
“Is it my heinous, wretched breath?” I asked.
“No,” she laughed, waving her hand. “Just don’t let Justin fuck with your head.”
“What?”  
“The emaciated guy with acne scars and shaved head?” she said. 
“Yeah.”
“He tells tall tales but don’t ever let him finish.”
“Why not?” 
“His mom died in a car accident when he was twelve,” she said. 
“She wasn’t murdered by Sophia, the psychotic older sister with a Chef’s knife?”
“No, that story is a lark,” she said, “a whim. Justin has no sisters, or brothers.”
“Figures,” I said. 
“We are all less than honest with ourselves around here, though,” Juniper said.
“How so?”