The Devil at My Door

The devil is at my door this morning. Not metaphorically or symbolically. The devil.

At my door. Staring at me. It’s five in the morning. My body is heavy.

I’m holding a Ghost energy drink in one hand and my purse in the other. I’m wearing my Publix

uniform under my jacket. I barely process what I’m looking at.

He’s almost comically accurate to what you’d expect from Satan. Red skin,

barely a strip of cloth over his crotch, a tail that whips in the air behind him,

and long arms that meet together in front of his chest as he raps his fingers together.

His eyes, though, they’re normal. Just a pair of plain brown eyes set into