a place called glovebox

part four in a week-long series about the rituals associated with napkins...yes, napkins

one registration, signature smeared
three pens, one that writes
two pencils
one glasses case, empty
one throat lozenge, ricola
four pennies
seven napkins, crumpled but mostly clean

she flips the top open
tosses the glasses case on the passenger seat
and grabs the fistful of napkins

she blinksblinksblinksblinksblinks
not crying
defiantly
not crying
jamming the napkins at her shirt
at her lap
at the sticky sweet diet coke staining her favorite sunshine dress.

the paper tears and leaves little brown bits of detritus on the field of yellow.
she drops the napkins in her lap
she drops her head
she drops it all and sits there
knowing she will not be making the best first impression today.