As she began thinking about these things, she noticed other things. A large tree branch over her home that, if struck by lightning, would collapse onto the roof above her kitchen table. While it did not have the mass to crush the entirety of the roof in, she wondered if it could spear her, in a way. She didn’t share these thoughts. They were hers, and she would chuckle to herself about the glibness of it all.

She had had a long, uneasy life, and knew that she deserved the luxury of fantasizing about a violent death.

While flattening the corners of the white linen and rubbing out all air pockets, Amelia thought about a drunk driver veering off the road, ramping up on the curb, and smashing her against the glass and wicker of the display.

I wonder if the old wiring back there could just spark up and burst into flames, burning almost immediately through the thin metal holding up the big system of fluorescent lights and sealing the door off and making it unopenable. I think I would be able to throw myself through the glass. I’m not what I used to be but I could do that. I mean, I know it isn’t sugar glass. If I went through it shoulder first the glass shards could cut me up. I could get an artery in my leg cut, it wouldn’t even have to be at my head or throat. I might live for a couple days even, only to have it get infected.

I might live, still. Definitely if I was younger.

Amelia thought about youth constantly. She had always intended to marry young, right out of high school, but it didn’t turn out that way. The idea of marriage sounded incredibly romantic to her. She essentially drifted through school, under the radar, slightly pretty, but bony and wispy. She didn’t draw much attention from boys. There was a vague, understated element about her that seemed to cast an aura to teenage boys that somehow, someway, they would be punished for trying to have sex with her. She seemed downtrodden and serious. She seemed unconcerned about men.

After graduation, she stuck around town. In a town that small, new people didn’t arrive much. There were weekenders, but they were mainly concerned with each other. They ran through the town, got what they needed from the wineries or the bars, and rifled away on Sunday. The idea of a local didn’t mean shit to them. If anything, it was negative. A definite yokel vibe is cultivated in a folksy bubble.

She had romantic visions of men that would arrive, but they were never emotional or grandiose or metaphorical. Someone dressed nice, someone pleasant. Someone with a mustache. The fantasies were almost analytical. Young Amelia described minute details of fake dates with fake men to herself.