101 Words

Red-faced, eyes scrunched shut, tears rolling down cheeks, she pushes away from me. Her wails pierce my heart. I try to hold her close, but to no avail. She pushes away harder.

Once I was the center of her universe. I was all she wanted. All she needed.

I heat a bowl of mashed vegetables and a cup of milk.

The sobbing subsides. Gleefully, she opens her mouth. Greedy gulps. Her satisfied smile.

“Clever girl,” I say.

That night I put my maternity bras in a bag to take down to the charity shop, then consume a whole box of chocolates.

I did this.

The earwig writhes in the clear water, his mangled antennae frantically prodding the air, making obscene gestures over his broken body. Meanwhile, the tissue used to safeguard my attack floats placidly next to him, holding up severed appendages for his consideration.

Downstairs, my mother calls me to lunch. I move to reply, but all I can do is stand silently over my victim, wondering how many times I had smashed such creatures and recoiled at their splattered remains, only to discard the carnage with a gentle push of the handle.

I did this, I think again, and flush.

ATM lines are supposed to be fast. It was January. He’d been shivering in line for 15 minutes. The woman at the ATM was a flurry of activity. She repeatedly shoved envelopes, pushed buttons, and grabbed receipts. A chilled brunette ahead of him hugged herself against the wind. He opined, “I expected trouble when people could get mortgages at ATMs.”

She looked back at him and smiled. “Bet you a coffee she won’t be done in 5 minutes,” she rejoined.

“You’re on! It has to be a good cup of coffee.”

“I know a place.”

The conversation and stopwatches started simultaneously.

A hospice custodian polishes the floors all day. I wonder if he does it so the souls don’t stick to the floor or so the soles don’t scuff the hallway leading to sorrow-soaked moments and final goodbyes. The beautiful kind.

The whir of his machine is louder than prayer. Perhaps for privacy.

He doesn’t smile. Nor does he furrow his brow or frown.

Pensive. Peaceful. He’s a caretaker, readying reflections, buffing the bridge to the beyond.

I watch him from a tiny window in the marketing department office.

Realizing just how meaningful his duties are. Certainly, far more rewarding than mine.

My wife and I play a game while stopped at red lights. We dissect pedestrians crossing the intersection with the sharp scalpel of our wit.

I’ll point to a woman wearing Day-Glo orange. “Divorcee on the prowl. Check her slutty clothes and makeup.”

“That moron’s a drunk,” my wife chimes in. “See how he wobbles? And it’s only noon.”

But one day we picked apart an aging dowdy woman pushing a shopping cart loaded with all her possessions. She suddenly stopped in front of our car and pounded on the hood.

“At least I have a life!” she cried. “Do you?”

“I’m not looking for romance or love,” said Cicely. “I just want to be a paid girlfriend. I mean,” she looked at her list, “you, Terry, want a girlfriend and I want money.”

“How much money?”

“Forty pounds a date. There would probably be extras,” she smiled broadly.

“On this planet, that’s not called a paid girlfriend, Cicely.” I kept a straight face.

“OK, Barry, if you change your mind, here’s my card—and there goes the bell!” She pivoted and leapt away.

“Hi, I’m Amanda.”

Amanda didn’t mention money at all. She had the beginnings of a moustache, though.

He hands me a set of keys. “Happy Birthday, sweetheart.”

I observe the creepy metal structure in front of us. It looks like an unexploded bomb. His eyes dance. “You said you wanted to get away from it all!”

“You bought me a submarine?” I try to picture myself ‘relaxing,’ hunched over inside the tiny glass bubble, tons of seawater above me.

My friend Eleanor’s husband got her a handbag and a nice pair of shoes for her birthday.

Later that evening, I Google the cost of the submarine. $95,000.00!  A waste on every level!

I just wanted a spa day.