101 Words

I’m squinting into the sun, strumming my guitar, hoping someone will stop and listen.

A blond girl limps past, expression grim, and drops a dollar into my guitar case. There’s an ugly purple bruise on her cheek, crusted blood in her nostrils.

She hesitates at the biker’s bar, throws her shoulders back, and steps inside.

Too bad. Such a lovely girl. Didn’t think she was the type.

As I’m strumming soft chords, practicing a riff, four shots ring out.

She saunters out of the bar, smiling, humming to herself.

After crossing the street, she tosses a smoking revolver into a mailbox.

I sit on the bus, heading home, fix my skirt. She’s fourteen, maybe. Possibly pretty behind the screaming makeup, the too-heavy clothing. She stretches overhead, hands gripping metal bars for balance.

The long sleeves of her sweatshirt edge down. I see them. Scars. Red. Angry. Recent.

I hesitate, then turn my palms heavenward. Wrinkles and time half hide the deep cuts that cross my own wrists.

She glances down, lets out a gasp.

We reach her stop. Unsummoned, I follow.

Crossing into a park, she takes a seat.

I’m old. I know what to do.

I sit beside her.

I listen.

It started as a joke. James and I were viewing a house—nicely finished, but the kitchen a bit small—when I made eye contact and popped a grape into my mouth. We laughed for ages afterwards.

Things escalated. Next time I pocketed a pen. Then a mug. Taking a shoe was particularly funny.

James, less amused, told me to stop. I tried. Instead, I started visiting houses alone, even after we had bought ours.

I’m leaving one now—I’ve decided this is the last time. I start the engine, then pause, hand floating. I don’t know how a manual works.

My mobile mechanic works on my SUV oil leak. This time with a young female trainee. Thin, tough, and pretty.

I walk outside to check on them. They’re underneath my SUV, lying side by side and giggling.

Hmm…Earlier they left for a long lunch. It’s obvious they hit it off.

I imagine his poor wife at home scheduling appointments and bookkeeping between cooking and cleaning.

You get caught, trust is a lot harder to fix, I want to say to him. I should know. Several have cheated on me.

When they finally finish, I meet his trainee: his little sister.

Rose watched her friends dancing to the new rock ’n’ roll music. She spotted Alfred but didn’t dare get up. Her mother watched her, watching him.

At intermission, Mother said, “C’mon, Rose, we’re leaving,” and left to fetch the car.

Alfred approached. “Leaving so soon, Rose?”

“Yes.”

“May I call you?”

“We don’t have a phone.”

***

Rose sat in the backseat while Mother drove. “Who was that boy?”

“No one.”

“Don’t forget, you’re working the store this summer. No distractions.”

“Yes, Mother.” Rose held a napkin open, careful not to fold it. Written on it, in red lipstick, was Alfred’s number.

I dream of storming my boss. Tsar of the coffee shop.

In my mind, he genuflects, saying something other than “Pick up the pace.” Maybe it’s an “I’m sorry.” Better yet, he fumbles for words, and they crash to the floor.

I don a worker’s cap. Prepare to distribute smiles. Tell tired customers that I know what it means to have numbers and parameters strangling you, from your first bowl of cereal all the way to cold spaghetti at midnight.

Bills slither through my door. Power, cell phone, rent. Fridge dwindles to Vienna sausages.

I prolong the revolution, but don’t surrender.

I can’t remember the last time I saw the sun.

Within the first few days, my perspective shifted from fear to solace. The musty, mildewy smell of the unfinished basement had become a comfort. Cool, rough concrete against my skin kept me grounded to the world. Exoskeletal companions easily replaced the human beings who no longer looked for me.

In the end, she was right. I was easily forgettable.

Now, the once-appealing promise of sunlight warming my skin has twisted and turned into a threat, far more than the glint of the knife that coerced me here in the first place.