Sublimate your rage, Valencia. My mothers words ring in my head. I was named after the citrus fruit; at least that's what I tell myself. I've not been successful in discovering the actual origin of my name. I tell people I'm a namesake of the subpar orange, because it causes them to furrow their brow, tilt their head, and say huh, contemplatively. The conversation never lasts beyond that.
"Not today, you piece of shit," I say, frustrated. I slam my hands on the wheel in anger.
"Fuck!" I shout. I'm sure if anyone's around, they're currently turning their attention towards the flustered twentysomething in her dying Volkswagen, and her profane, muffled yelling. This goddamned thing is a piece of junk, but it looks cool, and that's why I care to keep it.
My mother's right. I shouldn't take my anger out on my car- there's nothing I can do about it. I might as well make good use of my energy and walk the rest of the way. It isn't far, but I might be late now. Eight short blocks, thirty minutes. I've got this.
YOU ARE READING
Citrus
Short StoryA hipster barista. Her beat-up car. Join Valencia in her life outside the mainstream as she struggles to find a niche when her bohemian attributes are temporarily suspended. An ongoing short.
