Sally.

The soup comes soft-served, a soggy sort of sabulation used by Sally who stops by every other Sunday.

A special treat for the dignified manager of Wegman,
not Winn-Dixie, W-e-g-m-a-n.
The difference is of substantial degree for surly old Sallie.

Benchie's. The rectangular store on the corner of some bygone street 2 miles north of preeminent Buc-ees.

Not Menchie's, Benchie's.
The difference is of no clear importance lest a dinky scheme for this poetic piece.

The pumpkin-pie is one part batter and two parts butter.
The fro-yo droops out slo-mo through an opening agglomerated in mildewic microbes,
like dangling silicone caulk that's melted in the garage of a southern dig,
its base sunken through unwetted tarmac tilted a couple degrees through the roots of a walnut tree, sealed-in with the onslaught of Hurricane Harvey.

The froyo is less froyo than water with patches of microbic ghee-cluster.
The machine lies at the corner, comes after all the flavorings of cheesecake and mayberries, it is crumbling and out-of-order.

The guy who is to fix it is also out of order, his boss, on emotional debt to his Bronxian-mother, their managing-director, on leave for laundering layering withal the content of mattress-sale thrifting.

Sally does not know that.
The soggy-dense sugar concentrate feels good on her shrunken teeth.

And, I mean, Sallie's sight is not too precise on a structural spectrum of precision,
so all she reads for "Out of order" is "Don n' Partick."
Considering this a rare flavor for the new kids on the block,
Sally goes eating her ice cream.

Because ever since Sally got her promotion,
Sally is acceptable in her earnings,
and she prides herself in going to Benchie's.

Whenever someone comes into Wegman,
she tells them that she does like fro-yo indeed.
And she secretly snickers, knowing the kids thought she was going to say fro-zen yo-gurt
but no, Sally says it right.
She knows the business.

Whenever she goes into Benchie's, everyone gives a big round of applause.
And Sally, you always had an excited look on your face.
You were beaming when my friends, that horrendous group,
laughed maniacally,
every Sunday, Ox with that overused cigar in his hand, instead of the begging trash, Sop with leather on his blades and Sam on lap, jeans on jeans, personal favorite, Val's fluffed up hair as of a peacock, and Cam's greased down hair, eyebrows, shirt, jacket, you get it...
and gum, that gum never left Sam's mouth,
I was left to wonder how she could chew it while still slurping melted froyo.
They made fun of you, Sally,
I laughed too, Sally.

And you'd walk in 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘥, Sally.
You would go to the machine at the end, beaming at my friends, your head held high,
like you were in on royalty,
and you'd pour it, and go to the register, put it on the weight, and fumble,
fumble through your leather bag whose holes you hand-knit from your French cookie-box sewing kit.
While walking out, with the ice cream, you looked back at my friends, beaming and proud, laughing along with us.

Why were you proud, Sally?

I saw Sally at the corner that day.
I went out to light my cigar, after I sensed upcoming treason, criminal Ox, charged by Sop for looking at Sam the wrong way.
Yes, that's when I left my friends,
for a breath of fume and air.

That's when I saw Sally
eating the cup of froyo
that she purchased with her leather bag.

Her hands trembled because she was old, and so
lifting the neon green plastic spoon to her mouth,
she looked quite feeble
and though she was thick around the neck,
it was arched to the front.

It was arched too much, I'd say,
too much down, too bowing,
as if she would any second be a self-eating ball,
a foreboding cloud above her head,
as of self-loathing with an air of dread.

I think Sally,
well, I think she knew all along.
And I think the smile on her face,
well, I think that smile was some twisted expression of agony.

I could not stand it.
I could not stand it.

That's when I killed Sally.
To put an end to her sadness, I took away her life.

We had a public funeral,
and I gave the commencement speech.

I think the real reason I killed Sally was not at all twisted empathy.
You see, it made me very uncomfortable,
the way her dress stuck to the layering of skin on her waist,
and the veins in her eyeballs made squishy noises as she turned around to look at me when I stepped out,
smiling with her yellow teeth.
And Sally made noises while eating the froyo,
she slurped and slurped it.
I believe that is why I killed Sally.

I do miss Sally.
I go to Benchie's every Sunday in memory of Sally
and I eat that ice cream.

I eat that ice cream.

My teeth are yellow and I met a girl named Vale, or Manny?
My waist feels heavy, but dang does that d&p taste good on the tongue!
No, I am not sad.
spat, spat!

ha!
who's there that smokes a cigar?
a girl named...Sally?