She had heard, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”
So she ran, stepped, rowed, spun.
Every drop of sweat that poured from her flesh tasted like glorious salty victory.
Looking at her transformed figure she sighed,
“Skinny’s got nothing on pizza.”
—
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After coastal waters stretched into our homes, our lives, our histories, days stretched into weeks. Mourning washed over us in hot waves of stillness, silence, and salt.
The twenty-six years since could have been twenty-four hours. Flooded memories know nothing of time.
Image credit: Post & Courier, 9/23/1989, File/Wade Spees/Staff
Somewhere,
boxed away
in the attic of my mind,
lived the truth–
dust-covered, mildew-stained–
until the day she toppled over,
spilling her rancid contents
into my consciousness.
And my forged reality
was exposed
by tainted memories
I swore
I could
just
forget.
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Jabbing it beneath my nose, she squealed. I said YES! Giddy coworkers descended, clamoring for details like gulls for a fry, their squawks muzzled by the ringing in my ears. What’s forever with you to her is forever without you to me.
Did she whisper “our secret”
as hands began to roam?
Did she murmur “don’t worry”
as text lit up your phone?
Did she mouth into darkness
“don’t think of her at all”?
While frozen at our table,
I waited for your call.
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Staring at her hands to avoid the jurors’ intrusive eyes, she spat out answers. Each word bitter and heavy on her tongue.
A guilty verdict would surely dig a needle in his arm. So she swallowed the truth and set herself free.
Beware of uninvited visitors, the slight slip of paper warned.
Sarah chuckled to herself: These fortunes keep getting weirder and weirder.
Staring out the open window, she crunched absently on the stale cookie,
never seeing the eight-legged enemy that tiptoed silently inside.
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We dodge the questions like two school kids playing tag, chirping “We’ll do it when we’re ready.”
“We’re saving up.”
“We’re not in a rush.”
But really, we’re just plain scared.
We see what happens when there’s nothing left to run from.
Rain on your wedding day is good luck, they cooed.
So she slipped from the chapel–bouquet in one hand, umbrella in the other–and headed for the Greyhound station. She wasn’t going to screw this up.
One-way ticket to Vegas, please.
*Image Source: From Under the Willow Tree
“Do you see her much?” she pecked, returning with tea. “Or is she more like a pretend girlfriend?”
“Yes, mother, I see her,” he responded, teeth clenched.
Every night, he thought. But it was complicated now with the restraining order in place.
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Gargleblaster #157: Answer the question “Do you see her much?” in exactly 42 words.
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