I sit upon the round seat of a heavy metal stool a stool conceivably as old as the pharmacy in which it sits. For over half a century, this small drug store on the town square has served its customers dependably and honestly.
To my left, warm sunlight pours in through plate glass windows and floods over the dusty linoleum floor. Outside, an occasional passing car or truck breaks the monotony of a typically boring Sunday. Beyond the limits of my vision, life is continuing serenely as it has for countless generations.
.
Church was especially uplifting today. The morning service was followed by a delicious meal one of those church dinners where all the women bring food. Being of the biblically superior gender, I was under no obligation to contribute. Still, I took the opportunity to add excitement to the drab lives of my fellow church-goers.
.
As with all church dinners, a couple of the entree's were too disgusting for a sane person to touch. It was without the slightest modicum of guilt that I added my own special ingredient to the pans. I rationalized that the town would be better off without the kind of dolts who would partake of such swill. The strychnine was easily obtained from my father's drug store. I remember a smile parting my lips as Mrs. "Holier than thou" Beasley scooped up a glob of the awful substance that I had carefully tainted.
My reverie is broken by the sound of sirens. Tomorrow is Monday, and I must return to college. I will try to make it home on the weekends. It is my duty to this pitiful little dirt town to keep the pace of life from returning to the unnatural, sluggish crawl at which it once was set.
