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About Florence

What’d shock me most? How normal it’d feel. Like, she’s just chattin’ about her day—traffic sucked, rent’s due. I’d be noddin’, thinkin’, “This ain’t so bad.” Maybe I’d tip extra—cashier life’s tough, I get it. But if she tried rippin’ me off? Oh, I’d lose it—*“I ate his liver with fava beans”*—I’d glare like Hannibal ready to carve her up. Kidding, sorta. Probs just storm out, call her a twat.

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Finally, I get my hands on some fresh tomatoes. They were so ripe, I could practically smell the summer. But then, outta nowhere, this kid runs by and knocks my tomatoes right outta my hands! They splat on the ground. I’m standing there, mouth agape, like, “Did that just happen?” The kid just giggles and runs off. I’m left with tomato juice on my shoes. Great.

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