The Piggy Bank.

She sits there, her tilted concave down graphs raised over baby black circles that look into everyone around her. A sliver of space lies on top of her back, shaped to be the choice spot for the weights to be dropped onto.

Someone is coming over to me. I watch her hand pass over instead to the open, unsuspecting gap above my shoulders. I can not see her hand anymore. The weight is dropped. A penny, then a nickel, then a dime. I hear the sound of them landing in me. It resonates clearly and I am shaken by the feeling of them inside my previously empty casing. Proudly, I harbor them in my opaque hard shell. She turns and leaves me there, three coins heavier.

Someone is coming over to me. I watch her hand pass over instead to the open, unsuspecting gap above my shoulders. I can not see her hand anymore. The weight is dropped. Four quarters. I hear the sound of them clunking with the other coins before they are buried with them. Sitting in the dark. She turns around to leave the four quarters within me, forgetting that they are there. Her wallet is lighter. I am responsible for these weights and I can not break though I am made of glass.

She sits there, her tilted concave down graphs raised over fading black circles that glazes over everyone around her. A sliver of space lies on her back, the color around it older than the rest.