Tin Soldier

Every five minutes my fingers grope through the air, closing on the sticky-slick metal sides of the can, dragging it to my lips. Like I’m kissing someone, tongue sneaking to graze the rim for some drop of caffeinated sugar; but I never get a response, not even the smallest taste. Only cool, lingering aluminum, metallic and bitter as my disappointment.

Don’t fall for packaging; behind the sleek silver-lined PEPSI logo and azure foil it’s all about the sweet bubbles filling my mouth. “It’s what’s inside that counts:” there’s syrup and carbonation and a cheap, mild rush somewhere short of the falling-in-love euphoria of real drugs. I’ve run the course of my commitment to it, the twelve ounces of novelty slurped down to fuel a four a.m. bout of homework, and what’s left is no more than a clatter in my overfilled garbage bin. There’s no attachment; I paid nothing for it, just lifted it from Mike’s stash on my way out the door; enjoyed what there was until the can had nothing left to offer.

My frustrated scowl melts into something more thoughtful, curious consideration. That can fits in the curve of my palm, secured by the taut wrapping of bone-knobbed fingers around it. Beneath torn calloused pressure, the flimsy metal warps in my falsely delicate hands, crumpling to a wearied heap. I watch it fall soundlessly to the carpet to weep there, admiring my own particular brand of destruction.