13 advil (Virginia Woolf pastiche)
Julienne Ho

That inhabitant of the medicine cabinet most frequently left on the counter is not properly to be called a bottle of aspirin, for his contents are brick-red and circular like trail-mix chocolates. Aspirin inspires the idea of a store-brand, generic drug: minimal white tablets with starchy binding agents that reminisce a bitter taste on the tongue, the unranked, uniformed footsoldier of the pain-relieving world. The mind calls upon the image of a minimal but bright affect of clear-cut words on the label of the cylindrical vessel. Nevertheless the present specimen, clad with his printed label faded from days in the sun atop its original store identification, sat with repurposed confidence atop the table. The day is strained, with pinched expressions scattered throughout the library accompanied by tense whispers wafting through couples on ruby-red cushions. The librarian perches on her toes, combing the landscape for aberrations in the monotonous buzz of stress, although I am unsure whether this is to find a conversation to join or just to reprimand noise. 
​
This same energy lives in the bottle: the basal urge to abandon the moment of difficulty in favor of ease became increasingly appealing to those who feel that the buzz in their heads begins to overwhelm. One could not help but glance at him.