101 Words

Ned noticed our error as soon as we started our shift. We could be fired over a cock-up like this, and although I hate art, I need this job. We had to rectify it, and quickly. But before we could distract the curator, the gallery’s biggest patron cornered him three feet from the exhibit, where patrons collected to declare:

“Such a daring statement about race.”

“It triggers the viewer’s imagination.”

“Genius.”

“A stark warning about capitalism.”

During a break for the speaker, I moved to turn it right side up. Ned shook his head. The painting sold for a quarter million.

“Ms. Gordon,” said the reporter, “thank you for meeting with me. ARTnews is always on the lookout for the hottest new talent.”

“Darling,” replied the exotic-looking woman, “it’s Euryale Gorgon. But you can just call me Eury.” She smiled mysteriously and patted her unusual head wrap.

The reporter held up her dictaphone. “Eury, you are the trendiest New York sculptress, using granite instead of marble.

“The precise details in your subjects, magnificent! How do you get those tiny eyelashes?

“And perfect fingernails?

“And their startled expressions?

“What do you mean you’ll show me?

“Hey, why are you taking off your turban?”

I tossed a spoonful of Auntie Calida into the blizzard. I’d warned her, “Leave me your cremains and I’ll fling your ashes into a snowstorm.” She despised cold weather.

“You won’t, Jamie,” she’d chuckled. “You’re such a goody two shoes.”

She had me there.

Living with funerary urns spooked me, and despite my wicked threats, three relatives said they’d entrust me anyway.

I tossed another spoonful out the window. Forced responsibility flying away.

“Who’s a goody-goody now, Auntie?”

I promised my mother, a vegan, if she foisted her cremains on me, she’d season my beef bourguignon. She said I wouldn’t dare.

One knee brushes another.

They jolt apart—and do not look.

The bus rumbles to a halt.

This is Lucy’s stop.

~

They sit as they always do—together.

But not,

together.

The days pass.

Knee brushes knee again and again.

Purposefully accidental to wandering eyes. To curious glances.

~

They smile like passing strangers in the hallways.

A secret blooming between them.

~

Two hands untouching on the seam of their seat, a line uncrossed.

A pothole throws their terrain into disarray; the boundary between them is breached.

A knuckle brushes hello.

A finger pad paints a reply.

The bus—stops.

Anna alights.

Wallace sat at a kitchen table, numb. In his head, blue lights from the driveway still flashed.

He was finished being strong. He had held her hand as life slipped away, then made the calls, and waited while the sun rose.

Now tears trickled down, splattering in silence on the tabletop as his shaky hand poured stale coffee. How many minutes, hours, days would pass before he forgot she had asked for cream in her cuppa?

With labored breathing, his tears turned to tortured sobs, and his heart strained, forgetting its rhythm without the beat that steadied it over a lifetime.

They walked, arms entwined, to her favourite spot beside the river. Autumn shadows lengthened; Alison pressed against Bill’s side.

They meandered past the bandstand looking over the river. His ruffled hair reminded her of Jack. Such a tragedy. She squeezed his hand.

Bill was attentive, charming. He straightened her hair. Her cheek twitched at his touch.

They stopped at the river’s edge, his back to the water. Green eyes met blue, he leaned in for the kiss. Memories racing, the old urges overwhelmed her, urging her to push against him, push him to the river bed below where Jack’s body rested.

Your attendant recognises my unblemished voluptuous curves and quirks an eyebrow. It’s my fifth time this week but, like a moth to a flame, I cannot resist—I need your touch.

As soon as the barrier’s breached, I am wet. For six stationary minutes you teach me the meaning of passion. You shower me with limitless liquid love and whisper kisses across my quivering body.

I groan in pleasure at the sensuous texture of your silken brushstrokes mapping every trembling inch of me. My engine purrs and I exit, sated.

Tomorrow, I’ll be driven again to worship ‘The Car Wash King.’