Shedding Skin

By Sally Reiser Simon

Sssome days being an emotional sssupport sssnake is ssso trying. Take today, for instance.

“Good morning, Stripe,” Bernie says, “Big day! Gwendolyn McMurphy’s in town to sign her latest book. Isn’t that exciting?”

I flick my tongue. Translation: Don’t you have enough books?

Also, could you take a closer look? I’m starting to shed and you know how I get.

Within the hour I’m in his messenger bag, wrapped around The Secret Life of Serpents, bouncing on a bus. The bell sssignalling ssstops is sssuper annoying, but I know the bookstore will be quiet. God knows we’ve been there enough.

Sssuddenly, Bernie pulls me from my ssslumber, and whispers, “Sorry buddy. Major traffic today. Taking longer than usual.”

Dude, I was fine, Anxious much? (Molting makes me cranky)

Finally he notices my loose skin, “Are you about to shed?”

Bingo buddy, so take it easy, would ya.

Without warning, the bus turns. Bernie’s arm flies into a mother and child. A grubby hand reaches toward me and I ssstrike out. (Like I said, cranky). The kid cries. The mother yells.

“Chill, Stripe,” Bernie hisses.

The lady insists we get off immediately, ssso we’re tossed onto the sssidewalk into a ssstream of people, pushing and shoving.

Sssomeone bumps Bernie and I fall to the ground. Feet are everywhere. A heel just misses my head. Horns honk. SSSo much noise. I ssslither beneath a mailbox, and the coarseness of the concrete feels sssssooooo good!

“Stripe. Where are you?” Bernie’s voice is frantic. “Has anyone seen my snake?”

A wide-eyed toddler points at me.

Bernie ssswoops me into his bag with a quick, “I’m sorry!”

The next thing I hear is elevator music emanating from Becalmed’s Books and “You’ve gotta to be kidding me.” Bernie holds me close. “Gwendolyn McMurphy’s sick. All this for nothing, and I’m spent.”

You and me both, Buddy.

A young woman interrupts, “Is that a rosy boa?”

Bernie pulls himself together. “Stripe, meet–I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Meredith. I’m the new manager.”

“Stripe, meet Meredith. Meredith, Stripe.”

I flick my tongue. Translation: Sweet mother of Jesus, what a breath of fresh air!

“You’re not going to believe this,” she says. “Follow me.”

We beeline past cookbooks and comics before passing through a door that reads Staff Only.

In the back of the room, under a bright light, rests a large tank. The most beautiful sssnake I've ever ssseen lounges inside.

“Stripe, meet Sunny. She’s a silver boa.”

I’m tongue tied.

Meredith invites Bernie to grab a coffee in the cafe. I squeeze his arm and motion toward the tank. Flick. Flick. Come on, buddy. Figure it out!

“Could we drink the coffee here? Stripe’s molting.”

“Of course! He’s probably a nervous wreck.”

I flick my tongue. Translation: She’s a keeper.

Bernie falls transfixed into conversation. Stealthily, I amble off his arm and ssslither to the tank where Sunny lays curled in the corner.

I flick my tongue toward Ssssunny. She flicks back.

No translation needed.

🩷🩷🩷

Sally Simon (ze/hir) lives in the Catskills of New York State. Hir writing has appeared in Citron Review, Emerge Lit, Flash Flood, and elsewhere. Ze participates in many contests like Writing Battle, Not Quite Write and Twisted in the Tale. Hir debut novel, Before We Move On, debuted in summer, 2024. When not writing, ze’s either traveling the world or stabbing people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.