It's just pickles, man.

One of the girls who works at the cafe I get my lunch from killed herself a couple of days ago.

I didn't know her very well, but I'd often see her walking around the neighborhood. She was a petite, cute in a pixiesh sort of way, and friendly, if a little spacey. We'd always nod or say hi when we passed on the street.

That and pickles were the extent of our relationship.

As I was leaving the cafe on the way back to work, I was thinking about pickles, and how I would be enjoying one shortly. I looked up the street and saw some people moving some stuff out of an apartment.

Just then I remembered that it was her place. I'd seen her go in and out of it several times over the last year, and had stopped to pet what I suspect was her cat dozens of times.

When I got back to work, still ruminating about the sad little part of the world just down the hill from me, I quickly handed Sadimac her sandwich, and went to get mine form the bag.

I pulled out the pickles, gave Sadimac hers, unwrapped mine, and savored it.

Misty never forgot the pickles. In fact, she'd put extras in from time to time.

I can only imagine what made her put a stop on everything at 21. Whatever it is it can't hurt her anymore, can't define her, can't fuck her up worse, or change her life.

Now, the people unloading her place have to deal with it, and that just makes it all the more tragic.