Grease

The following micro-short was inspired partly by the youtube vid: https://youtu.be/_Axa2YXonYM - the graphic on it, largely. I wrote this as I listened to the music.

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She stood on the rooftop, sucking back on an e-ciggy as I approached. “We're just grease,” she said. She was looking out to the horizon, and given her sunglasses, I barely knew she realized I was there.

“Grease?” I asked.

She stomped on the roof. “Building owned by millionaires.” She took her e-cig out of her mouth and held it up. “Sold to me by millionaires.” She took her sunglasses off and held them up. “Millionaires? Billionaires? It's sick.”

“Capitalism got ya down?” I chuckle.

She shook the e-cig and fiddled with it. “Piece of shit.” She tossed it down and ground it into the roof as if it were a normal cigarette. “And now I have to get another, pay my tribute to the gods of money, so I can get my next fix. And to give tribute to one millionaire, I need to work for another, doing work as a disposable, interchangeable commodity, like a can of spray grease.”

I looked her up and down. She stood like someone on a 15 minute break does. Tired, but 'active'. Still 'on', but aching to be 'off'.

“You're not disposable grease to me,” I offer.

She smirked, still facing the horizon. “We can be greasy together, and that makes it alright, huh?”

“It's something.”

“Until one of us gets sick.”

“I... we could manage easily enough.”

“But what if it's really sick?”

“We'll find a-”

“We're disposable, we're dime a dozen.”

“Hon... are you... sick?”

She crumbled into herself, shuddering, and went down the stairs. “...grease.”