101 Words

The hollow ding and dong behind your door fade as they go deeper into the house to summon you.

How often have I stood here, waiting to be let in?

Think of the winters I stand on your doorstep, hoping you’ve put coffee on to fill my mug and thaw my frozen fingers. Think of my aching legs, waiting to collapse into my indent on your couch. Think of how I watch for your face, wanting to see you open the door, smile, and kiss me.

I’ve spent so much time waiting. Too much.

No more doorbells.

I want a key.

After many years apart, he calls to say, “I wish I had made love to you more.” For days my heart flutters, my skin tingles.

Next conversation: he reveals he might have cancer.

I say, “Don’t assume anything. Wait and see what your tests show.”

And he says, “Right. Be prudent.” Then he switches, “You’re so beautiful. I miss holding you.” My heart swells.

Conversation after that: he has cancer. Stage three. We make plans for him to stay with me so I can help with his after-surgery care. Separate bedrooms.

Now I must shift to loving him in new ways.

The audience was enjoying every minute.

As a stand-up comedian, you dream about nights like these. I’d felt for some time that the decision to quit my job had been the right one.

It had been risky, but after getting more and more gigs, I’d finally taken the plunge and resigned. Redundancies had been mentioned, anyway. Like many places these days, the warehouse became totally automated.

So that’s why I had to laugh. Every joke was original and brilliantly constructed; all the punchlines were perfectly timed.

And I was forced to admit that Dave, the world’s first Comedybot, was very funny.

I’ve always dreamed of going 100 mph. Most like me do. Right now, I’m going 95 at 2,600 RPMs. Not bad, but I have a feeling I’ll never get another shot at 100.

A resounding crack strengthens my conviction for a split second. But I’m going in a different direction now, picking up speed.

I’m cruising at well over 100 now, just not the way I’d pictured. It’s more glorious than I ever could’ve imagined.

People cheer as I rush overhead. But physics predictably take over. The ground rushes up. I splat against the earth.

The pitcher should’ve thrown a curve.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the metal cylinder in her hand.

“It’s a moral compass,” she replies. “Here, look.”

The needle wobbles when she moves, settling to always aim at her.

“See, pointing at me. Means I am telling the truth.”

“And what’s that?” I point to a small metal bar, nestling between the compass and her hand.

“Ah,” she says, glancing away, her voice quiet. “That’s the…calibrator.”

She fumbles, the calibrator dropping, needle swinging in circles.

“I always tell the truth,” she says, resolute, face unwavering. She replaces the calibrator and the compass points back to her. “See?”

I was pleaded with until I promised to try and be civil with the man I detest. Not for his sake, but for my daughter’s, the children’s, and the holiday.

I start off well, offering a handshake and small talk about football and cars. Still, I listen and watch everything.

His stupid motorcycle t-shirt (his idea of dressing nice?). His piggish eating. His loud voice and his annoying stories. His ignoring my wife. His rough tone and unfair treatment of my grandchildren. His hateful attitude towards my daughter. My clenched fist raising…

I tried, he didn’t. A good day for me.