All Stories

Alice returned home after her waitressing shift at the diner and glanced at the clock: 3:51 p.m. Nine minutes before her husband’s regular yard time would begin at the federal prison outside Tucson where he was an inmate. She hurried into the living room and checked the Tucson weather on her cell phone: 85 degrees, nearly double that outside their apartment in Seattle. She set the wall thermostat for that temperature, then sat on the couch. Alice took off her coat, lifted their wedding photograph from the coffee table, and waited to spend the next hour with him in the same heat.

He skulked back and forth along the aisle like a wary tomcat. Collars up, eyes down. I did my best not to watch him, not to smile.

He paused from time to time, gaze skittering up the rack towards the top, then dancing away nervously.

Finally, he approached—set a newspaper on the counter. I started ringing it through when he flipped up the corner, revealing the magazine tucked inside: a glimpse of 2D tits. It was a deft manoeuvre. Dextrous, even.

“It’s all in the wrist,” I told him, and finally released a laugh when the bell chimed behind him.

I try to arm the world with kindness.

I bid scowlers and frowners a good day. Wish them peace on the bus, on the streets, at the movies. My wife, Penelope, said kindness was the most joyful gift.

Sometimes, scowls ease. We exchange words about adventures, jobs. Lost family.

Sometimes they tell me to fuck myself.

It feels like bullets striking left and right, while you’re trying to dart pain. Sometimes I want to slide into ease and assholeitude.

I imagine Penelope, disappointed, a ghostly being. Imagine scowlers and frowners carrying grievances. I envision their weight and shape.

I reload kindness.

Omigosh. Me? He wants to talk to me?

How long has he been watching? Why in the world did he pick me?

Here he comes. My heart’s racing.

He walks confidently, nonchalantly. What will he say? What will I say? I want to be ready.

My breathing is reduced to pained gasps. I feel so alone, so…exposed. Everyone can see us here.

This could be life-changing.

Take a breath. Lick your lips. He’s here.

Tall. Perfectly groomed. Ruggedly handsome.

He leans down to where I’m sitting.

“Ma’am, I stopped you because you were going 42 in a 30 mph zone.”

A mountain of gifts and cards sits on the table. She stands before them in the quiet; her stare as blank as steel.

Movement startles her. Across the table, her father rushes to collect dirty dishes, piling them up one by one. Each dish one step closer.

She puts her fingertip to a gift—then retracts it. Porcelain slams against porcelain. Always closer. He sets the pile down then moves behind her, his breath on her ear.

As his hands crawl down from her shoulders to squeeze one each, she forces her cheeks to make a smile.

The mountain stays silent.

She leaned forward to uproot the bindweed; her unbound breasts swinging freely against her chest. Going braless allowed the air to cool her through her cotton shirt’s fabric.

She sat back on her heels, her gloves caked with dirt; tea stains on her shirt; a tangled mound of weeds lying at her knees.

She wobbled when she stood.

Tomorrow her doctors would dig into her soil in search of weeds. The uprooted knots would change her shape forever.

She yanked her shirt over her head and stared hard into the future—then moved to the vegetable patch to plant fresh seedlings.