Supermarkets have their display patterns. The day after Labour Day marks the beginning of the Hallowe'en season. The day after Hallowe'en -- Christmas. Easter has yet to establish a start date, but there it was yesterday, on the first day of spring.
Among the walls and towers of Easter shit was a milk chocolate bust of Barbie. Not a row or column, just a couple of boxes side-by-side containing America's most popular doll -- as chocolate. On the box, her blue eyes shining, her blonde hair arranged in double buns as she holds up a blue-eyed rabbit next to her almost as white t-shirt.
Through the plastic window we see the edible product: arms clutching her mid-section, her tight-lipped smile, eyes closed this time because closed eyes, like toothless smiles, are cheaper to manufacture.
I purchased the Barbie for one of the grouchy old neighbours I buy groceries for. Her order was small this time, and because she likes milk chocolate I thought I would throw it in. The Easters of my childhood were filled with sugar, and this gal has been talking a lot about her childhood of late.
Last night, while walking between rainfalls, I approached the old woman's house and saw her lit-up in the kitchen widow. She didn't have her glasses on, which meant she couldn't see me under the street light, so I slowed down and watched.
I couldn't see the counter, but it looked like she was preparing something. Suddenly the box's pinkness, its top flap open and she has the bust by the neck, bringing it to her mouth, and just like that she bites the head off!
Mantis! I said to myself as she opened the freezer door, inserting the headless, legless Barbie inside.
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