101 Words

As the team moved towards their destiny of winning the American League West division, Josh and I drove west on very little sleep. Deep in the land of Utah, too far out there to second guess yourself and too late to turn back now and go home, in between trying to find a radio station that would come in, we calculated how many miles we had already driven, at what rate we were making time, and dividing and subtracting to reassure one another we would make it there in time to park, stand in line, check-in, and go to the ATM.

He shuffles into my office, bastardized uniform fluttering like banners heralding rebellion.

The silence marks a stand-off in the duel that started in the class—his territory. He’s not on home ground now.

“Do you think I like having to call you here today?” I wield rhetoric like a true hero.

Dissent oozes from every pore.

Dumb insolence is overrated.

“Well?” Bulging corpuscles turn my forehead puce.

“I think,” he licks his lips, “It’s time I taught you a lesson.”

Despite the tentativeness with which he speaks, the knife that drives the words home shows the strength of his conviction.

The Circus of macabre is back…yet I still remain.

I didn’t know when I awoke this morning that slumber still held you. Or, as I had my breakfast and busied myself about my day, you hadn’t eaten, haven’t stirred.

Painting my face with white pancake, affixing a bobbling tomato red nose just so, I draw teardrops at the corners of my eyes and trail them down my cheekbones. I will act as though you are not sleeping, even though my heart is broken as I draw bright red upon my lips. Macabre lays heavy, but the show must go on…

Looking out the car window, she watched a singing cardinal in a tree, mocking her. She tried to ignore the burning hum in her chest. She fucked up. If things went south tonight, like she knew it could in life, it would be game over. The thought jerked her out of her trance. Gripping the steering wheel, she looked at herself in the visor mirror. The guilt was overwhelming. Tears welled in her eyes. She will not cry. She did not get to be self-indulgent. Silent remorse was pain she deserved. Instead, she whispered, “Dear Jesus, please let her be okay”.

Her pyjama clad legs hung from atop the kitchen bench. Ugg boots tapped the wooden cupboards as they swung in beat to the music. She sipped on a fishbowl glass of red as she furiously recounted the excitement of her day. He chopped broccoli into florets as he listened to her nattering, the sound enough to dissipate the stress of his day. She paused to watch him, pushing her hand against her heart to make sure it hadn’t yet exploded. He noticed her hesitation and felt her gaze on his back. He turned. They locked eyes.

“Love me!”

“I love you.”