101 Words

Sometimes she sees things and tells him about them. These things are important to her and help when trying to make sense of the world around her. Rarely does he care, although he always says either “How interesting” or “Wow.” Above them a Galaxy speeds toward the unimaginably dense at two percent of the speed of light. “We are so much a part of it all,” she says. “No kidding,” he says, biting down on a peanut. “Tell me something,” she says, starting all of her fingers on fire. He watches them burn down to the knuckles. “How interesting,” he says.

They always looked the same, like kids who’d raided their fathers’ closets. In baggy dress pants and shirts.

They’d tell their stories in a shaky way, filled with fear. Like little boys describing the monster they had seen under their beds.

For a long time, that’s what James saw as he presented their one mistake before the jury.

That was before he saw the bruised face of the girl he’d kissed on the forehead each night as he tucked her into bed.

He clutched her sleeping fingers. Watching the nurse tuck her in, he saw the true capability of a boy.

Pitch complete, I try hard not to fidget or wipe my sweaty palms down my new skirt.

The venture capitalist glances up at my smart holographic display board and fixes me with an icy stare over his half-moon glasses. “So let me get this straight. Firstly, customers programme their self-driving cars to go to a physical shop.”

“Yes,” I reply.

He looks down at his tablet. “They take clothes off a rack themselves, try them on in these ‘fitting rooms,’ then carry the ones they want to a ‘till’, pay, and take them home right away.”

“Yes.”

“It’ll never catch on.”

The hearse stopped at the cemetery surrounded by two-story houses. I parked on the opposite side.

The mourners swayed around the coffin and their loss, and the rabbi began. I pressed an ear between the wrought iron bars, but all I could hear was her melancholy drone. When one of his kids looked in my direction, I pulled my scarf over my head and left.

I read the obituary between the stove and the sink. Ought to cry sometime, I figured. The words ‘faithful husband’ made me laugh.

I watched the fire escape for a while, snowflakes drifting through my reflection.

!?. were best friends. Punctuation marks were always needed.

Then, the Coronavirus hit and ! lost his job because no one was excited anymore. ? kept working because people were always questioning, when will it end why do I have to wear a mask why do I need a booster . had no worries because she ended most sentences.

One morning ! got his morning paper from the hotel lobby. There on the front page, in bold letters, was a surprise headline:

‘Pandemic Is Over No More Masks’

Now, that was certainly a place for ! He was back in business!

Babe, forgot to tell you this. Listen, this guy knocked at the door one night, said that he had something important to discuss with you. He was very handsome, well-groomed. You were inside, watching Netflix. I said that you were the previous tenant, that I didn’t know where you had gone.

Anyway, the reason I didn’t tell you, that was the night that we rushed outside and saw the flash and then the mushroom cloud to the north (San Francisco). Then, the same thing, only brighter, to the northeast. San Jose, we thought.

Since then so much has happened. So much.

Izzy didn’t need a perfect figure to attract attention. With an easy laugh and a gift for spinning tall tales, her magnetism pulled at everyone. She’d share a conspiratorial look with me after every punchline. Like it was just between us. Like everything was just between us. She got her break first, a show she wrote in three weeks. The night it opened in the city, I’d landed my own gig, in Poughkeepsie. On the train home, I saw the post. Izzy wore a perfect midnight-blue gown, held a bouquet of roses, and was giving the photographer that look. My look.