101 Words

Madge had an office, a title, and decades of seniority.

Her salary may have been HR’s little “don’t ask, don’t tell” secret, but her designer clothes spoke volumes.

Karen had a tiny cubicle near the copy machine, filled in wherever needed, and secretly dreamed of climbing the ladder of success.

When serious budget cuts came calling, Madge was the first employee to go.

Senior management carefully weighed the options and made an informed, perhaps caffeine-fueled, decision.

Turns out Karen was the only one who could clear those stubborn paper jams in the copier.

She also made a mean cup of coffee.

Greg let the screen door bang shut behind him.

“You’re finally back,” his father observed. He was sitting in the same armchair ten months later. “Your crap’s in the garage. Don’t think for one minute you’re moving back in. You and your mother were boils on my butt, bloodsucking leeches the pair of you. At least she had the decency to die with insurance.”

Greg reached into his bag. His hand closed around the cold, hard handle of a knife. As he raised his arm above his head, he wondered if they’d be serving Jell-O for dessert at the prison tonight.

I told you stories about bloody wars ending in glory.

Your favorites were of heroes who went insane or transformed into beasts, stories of death and carnage because you never liked love stories.

So, I armored-up with you. In life, on the screen, and across the table we fought off our foes.

One day, we lay down in the tall, sweet shadows of summer grass. I felt bliss, watching the gold flickering in your dark eyes.

I was sure you were ready to hear my love stories. Instead, you rolled away, and left for someone who didn’t believe in such things.

I love it here. Rue de This, Rue de That, Art Deco unlimited. But they let their dogs poop everywhere.

My shoes were Aldo. Ruined now. “Foutre vous!“

A voice protests. Not a dog mom; just some neighborhood nag yelling French things at me.

She is too fast, too loud, my Google français useless.

What’s wrong, is my face too Delhi?

Dress = Zara, jacket = Mango, bag = LV. My fashion’s on point for ze woman, I think.

I let her get closer. Let her see my pearls. She has two of her own.

I sigh, adjust my hijab, and take off my shoes.

“Bye!” she hollered when the bus first rumbled into view.

She waved furiously on day eight.

Day twenty-two brought impenetrable silence.

On day thirty-six, she hugged me fiercely before racing off.

On day sixty-four, she muttered, “I hate you!” over some perceived slight (it was her mama’s birthday).

She kissed my cheek on day eighty-one.

Day ninety-six’s “I love you” sent me soaring.

On day one hundred fifty-nine, her eyes shining pools, she whispered, “I’ll miss you.”

Heartsick, I buckled her into the car. “I love you!” I cried as she rode out of my world and back into her mama’s.

“It’s too early. My knee won’t take my weight.”

Her therapist warns, “You need to walk on it or your knee will never properly heal.”

“That evening, in the kitchen, Sara juggles the crutches and knife. When a cucumber peel falls to the floor, she is scared to even poke it. She fears the crutch will slip and drop her on the tile, doing more damage to her knee.

Three days later the cucumber has shriveled, a third its original size, reminding her of her own lame leg. She crushes it with her crutch so it can no longer mock her.