101 Words

She tiptoed down the hall to the door of the library. Her husband still paced the dark room, back and forth, like a lion in a cage. He was short, thick, and quite bald and the Comptroller for a large wholesale grocery, which he had embezzled from for over two years. The wife had learned of his embezzling and intended to use it to control their relationship. She entered the library as he walked to the window and flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the Street below. He then turned toward his domineering wife, whom he had decided to kill.

Everyone knows the story of the Tortoise and the Hare. Pride got to the Hare who was defeated by a humble yet determined Tortoise.

What most don’t know is what happened in the rematch. Well, the Hare trained his bushy tail off and absolutely destroyed Tortoise. Slow and steady can win one race, but talent and speed will ultimately prevail.

That is, until now.

BREAKING: The Hare is a cheater. The latest to use performance enhancing drugs.

Meanwhile, support has never been higher for the former-champ, Tortoise. The Hare could have his championship title asterisked or vacated entirely. Re-crowning Tortoise—champion.

The Winemaker had deep-set Asiatic eyes that nearly disappeared in the expanse of flesh that made up his broad face, hung with heavy jowls.

He approached me at the gym, friendly and exuding an old-fashioned charm. Safe and warm as a cousin.

My husband and I had been living in Los Angeles for two years, 2,000 miles away from old friends and family. The Winemaker’s Texan flavor was music to my ears. It was Mama playing her guitar on the porch. It was oak trees, mud cakes, sweet potato pie.

It was switches that left welts on our elbows and thighs.

I think I may die tonight, but I cannot. I live too far away from mom and dad. What about them? Not now, not yet. I wouldn’t want it to be a hassle for dad to drive the 1,200 miles out here to Colorado in the van, just to turn around and make the drive all over again. Dad needs sleep and no hotel would allow me to stay the night. I still have things to do. I haven’t coached little league baseball yet. I still haven’t witnessed the Oakland Athletics winning the pennant in a bar with my best friend.

Buzzing filled the silence. With each swipe of the clippers, my Robert’s pure-white scalp revealed a dot-to-dot pattern of moles, and a lone kidney-shaped birthmark. My throat tightened a bit when the straight blade shaved away years of forgotten memories: our child’s laugh during a gripping pull, winter-morning walks that gathered frost, and the years of kisses cushioned in warmth and the smell of his day.

The hairdresser looked to me in the mirror’s reflection.

He stood. The drape fell onto the floor’s litter of salt-and-pepper hair. Our eyes met: his seeking and vibrant in the vulnerability of change.

I smiled.