101 Words

The snow began to fall this evening. Translucent flakes of white drifting to the ground and melting into nothing. I watched from the kitchen window, in the warmth, as I scrubbed my hands in the sink.

The flakes thickened and hurtled towards the earth, battering the frozen ground. From graceful ballet to frenzied tango in a handful of moments.

The snow changed the landscape white, into a blank canvas. A fresh start. It even covered the new grave I dug behind the rose beds. That gave me more time. I turned the taps off, letting the murky, red water drain away.

Ted had no internet at home, so every morning he walked to the public library to check his email. Stephanie had yet to reply. Why? Ted had asked her to marry him. Did she need more time to consider his offer? Surely she’d write tomorrow.

When he arrived the next morning, Ted discovered someone had already booted the computer and left open an email addressed to someone named Peter. The email read, “Peter, my sweet love. Why haven’t you written? I wait with bated breath. Love, Sylvia.”

Ted smiled. Never one to ignore opportunity, he began to type, “My dearest Sylvia…”

Head down. Avoid eye contact. It’s just a bathroom mirror. Don’t give it the light of day. Use only quick glances; don’t focus on its features.

Ignore the cracked, dotted skin. Scratched, hairy legs. Broad, heavy shoulders. Bulging, outward gut. Broken, torn nails.

Don’t make a single sound. Don’t let it hear me. Not a cough, sneeze, or sigh. The echoes of the white walls and glass are relentless.

Make it quick. Get out fast. Brush my teeth, comb my hair, but don’t act like I own this body. It isn’t mine. It can’t be.

Finally, step away from the mirror.

Tomorrow, when all that’s left are footprints in the grass and forgotten orange peels, we’ll take the long way home. Boxes on the porch, your whole life packed neat. You’ll ride passenger in your dad’s Tacoma, past the Welcome to Georgia sign. Windows down, Corgi in your lap, asleep.

Tonight, moonlight soaks the pasture. My heart is in my throat. I’m too aware of my own breathing.

Look, you say, pointing up. There’s Orion.

I turn to tell you I love you.

But you aren’t paying attention.

What you’ll remember: a childhood friend, the quiet, and Orion that is actually Perseus.

She loved to dance.

At her sister’s wedding, she waltzed sedately around the floor and found her passion. Lost in the music, she began ballroom dancing, and next, a sexy Latin American style. Dressed in wispy, floaty costumes, she cha-chaed and samba-ed to the smooth seductive rhythms of the Latin guitar, trombones, and drums.

Her husband was a quiet man who didn’t dance but complained much, so she went out dancing alone.

Her husband sat up waiting for her, but she didn’t come home.

She and Fernando, an Argentinian dancer, tangoed into the dawn to the plaintive wail of the saxophone.

Behind the curtain, two shadows dance in the flickering candlelight. Moths drawn to the flame, bumping futilely against the glass shade, two lives saved from their hearts’ desire.

The other shadow sits unmoving, rocking chair stilled, on the silent porch. No glass to keep her from harm, heart charred to a crisp by the flame of rejected love. I cannot reach her, but I smell the smoky embers of despair.

I move to sit beside her, hand on hers. After an hour, she grips it tight. Tiny stirring of micro-roots as her heart begins the long climb back to the light.