101 Words

I was walking across campus when it happened. I heard live music and, stopping to listen, quickly noticed two young women dancing not far from me.

Radiating health and vibrancy, they entranced me with their rhythmic grace. These full figured Latino women captured my soul.

And that’s when it hit me. I wanted to live every moment just as free from care as they danced. I wanted to be creative and physical and hip and young and I wanted to surround myself with people who felt the same way. And that’s when I knew that we could no longer be together…

She is infatuated with her boyfriend’s best friend because he is deaf in one ear. No – not because of the affliction specifically, but because of how he carries it, so dignified and endearing and easily, and turns his head with such practiced comfort to be sure he can hear her well and fine and never notices that he does it. He is deep voiced and soft. But because he can never know, she sits on his deaf side and while his attention is distracted, whispers “I love you, I love you, I love you,” into an ear he will never lend.

They are faint echoes coloring every moment of my continued existence. You can’t call them memories, not exactly, because they never actually occurred. They are more like dreams. Or possibilities.

Either way, I am haunted.

They say–and by they, I mean the quantum physicists–that prior to its observation, a particle exists in superposition, in every possible quantum state simultaneously. I know this to be true. My world, ever since the moment of the accident, has become superpositioned. There is the reality in which she died, or the reality in which she’s still alive, and they exist forever in parallel

The sky turned from dark to light, and as I stood to my full height, color bled back into the world. Gritting my teeth, smelling my own blood, I faced my opponent. My sweaty neck cracked as I strained myself toward the sky, each pop making the sun flash like a camera. I was heat and light, and as I stepped toward him he understood, but too late. When I finally laid hands on him, my grip only cut through him, like a knife through butter, and he simply melted away. I had seriously underestimated how powerful dying would make me.

“Dad, why is Mom strange again?” My six-year-old son doesn’t mince words.

My 11-year-old daughter asks sympathetically, “Dad, is Mom mad at you
again?”

They are getting accustomed to my wife’s cyclical mental instability, but it
still hurts every time. You would think that after thirteen years it would
get easier, but it doesn’t. My wife lives half of her life in a world that
has no basis in reality. She “knows” that I have women on the side. She
seethes with anger. The worst part is, none of it is true. It’s all in her
head.

The Brubaker Spectacular trundled down Main Street, festooned with ribbons and fur, exploding confetti at every corner.

The children trailed after the wagons, quivering in epileptic fits of joy. The Brubaker Spectacular had arrived.

Elephants trumpeted at the sky. Acrobats danced from the rooftops. Giants wrestled lions, while swinging from trapezes suspended over fiery pits.

The Brubaker Spectacular promised two weeks of bewitching sensation, exceeding even the most remarkable dreams of splendor.

Shops closed their doors. The school master tossed aside his exams. Reverends and ministers preemptively forgave a fortnight worth of transgressions.

Nobody ever said no to the Brubaker Spectacular.