Moth Meets its Maker

Patent leather, red, spike heeled pumps planted firmly on the tile floor under Charlie's weight. Her real name is Angelina, but for some reason everyone has always called her "Charlie." Cute Italian Catholic girl--actually a 25-year-old woman with a husband and two kids. Charlie was next to me in the mailroom sorting out her department's letters as I emptied another basket of mail onto the counter behind where Charlie was standing. Her dark black hair shined and looked so beautiful as its length dropped down over her shoulders and partially touched the middle of her back. It contrasted nicely with her red outfit--a business jacket and short skirt that revealed her shapely, muscular legs.

I didn't at first notice the rather large moth that fell from the bottom of the mail basket I had just emptied, but the creature had fluttered powerlessly onto the white flooring, tossing a bit, and then lying still just behind Charlie's left foot.

Charlie turned her head to me and asked if there was another basket of mail. What a pretty face--dark eyes, perfectly shaped nose and lips with red lipstick, Charlie's jet black hair framing her venus-like features and soft while forehead and cheeks.

I replied in the negative. That's when Charlie stepped back with her left foot, planting her spike heeled pump directly on the sick moth. It was no longer suffering, but quite flattened beneath the leather sole and solid weight of this angel named Angelina. She had dispathed it to its Maker.

She stood on the moth for a good three minutes, then smiled at me with a quick "see ya later" and walked out of the room. I looked at the spot where the moth was--nothing remained of it except some squashed mush, flattened and turned into unrecognizable ooze.