101 Words

I was walking down a quiet street when another woman, coming the opposite way, grabbed my arm and stopped me. She said, “Excuse me, but I’m having a bad day and I wondered if we could have a hug.” Her voice was shaky and her eyes were red from crying. She was middle-aged and sort-of ordinary, as I am. And I thought, Why not? I’m having pretty shitty day, too, so we did. After a few seconds, we both said thank you and went our separate ways. I had a soft smile on my face, but I checked my wallet anyway.

I’d drunk most nights for years. Sure, the doctors told me to cut down, but didn’t they say that to everyone? It never affected me like this before. I tried to keep my head above water—well wine. How to get out? I doggy paddled about, making sure each edge was the cool, firm, solid glass it appeared. Could I push out the cork? But they never go back in as firmly as they start, and from inside, treading wine, I wouldn’t have the strength. I swam to the edge, breath heavy on the glass, and with one finger scrawled: HELP!

Hope, practicing pouty vestal looks in the mirror, paused to review the notes on her next client.

“Loves himself. Tips big if you call him Mr. President or Big Guy.”

Hope knew this type too well. She exhaled and cracked her knuckles. Well, maybe I can help him relax and make rent, she thought, as she put out fresh linens and clean towels.

Bottles of scented oil waited on their shelf. An ambient candle burned. Soft and psychedelic music played in the background.

The studio bell chimed. Hope put on her smile and opened the door.

“Hello, Mr. President.”

“Hope?”

“Dad?”

Every day it’s getting harder to breathe. I’ve already lost my feathered mate. She was my companion, my love.

In the living room sits my jailer, puffing away on countless cancer sticks. Tenebrous clouds swirl languidly about my cage, causing my eyes to sting. Below me lies her furry companion yapping endlessly, hoping to taste my flesh.

Once a day, she opens my wire door to toss in seed.

Behind her, I see an open window with a view of the world. Today is the day. I’m ready.

She opens my cage and I take flight. I’ve never felt so free.

“Watch me,” the remote urges.

Still in his pyjamas, he floods porridge with maple syrup and cream, slumps onto the sofa, and tunes in the breakfast show.

Beer and fries will accompany the afternoon soaps. The evening menu is single-malt Scotch. Neat.

But he studies his profile and grimaces.

He opens the door, starts to shovel the snow, and collapses.

His children sell the TV.

Its new owner drenches his sugar puffs with treacle.

“Watch me,” whispers the remote.

The snow that smothers his car whispers to him, too. So he struggles upright, grabs a shovel, and disappears into the blizzard.

To please his cautious girlfriend, the college boy in the pharmacy is buying condoms for the first time. The prophylactics are behind the counter, and he must ask the female apothecary for them. When the teenager finally gets up the nerve, the pharmacist responds with, “Three, six, or twelve?”

Panic floods the young man. Do they come in sizes like shoes? How will he find the right size? Who does the measuring? This woman? Sweat appears on his forehead. The matronly chemist familiar with the stupidity of horny adolescent males ends the awkward silence and hands him a box of twelve.