Fringed Purse (mini-fiction based on a real-life story)

“Where’s my fringed purse?  Don’t let anyone take my fringed purse.”

“I’ve got it, don’t worry.  I’m literally holding it.”

“Ok but be careful b/c if it’s not snapped shut then all my stuff will fall out.”

“It’s snapped shut and it’s secure.”

“Alright, but keep it with you.  You have no idea how many compliments I get on that purse, it’s a highly desirable accessory.  It’s from a British-Moroccan company, I forget the name.”

“Relax, everything is fine.”

“This place smells disgusting.  Like urine, vomit and desperation.  I’m so humiliated.”

“Don’t worry, no one is judging you.”

“Someone *literally* just stared at me like I was a sad low-life who had hit rock bottom.  Though at least my purse makes me look less pathetic.  I mean that’s the power of a good accessory, a great purse or a pair of stunning shoes can literally change your life.  I…”

“Sir if you could just move to the right, we’ll get her on the stretcher.  Are you riding with us?”

“Yes I am.”

“And he’s bringing my fringed purse with him.  Don’t let him forget it.  I’m feeling better anyways, maybe I don’t need the stretcher.  Plus, I kind of like it down here.  It smells gross but the cold tiles feel soothing.  Maybe I can just lie here a little longer?”

“Ma’am, we’re bringing you and your purse to the hospital on this stretcher.  Why don’t you just try and relax.”

“Okay, I’ll try, though relaxing is not my specialty.  I’m more of a go, go go person, you know?”

“Could you please stop talking and let them do their job?”

“Alright, Jesus.  I’m the one picking up god knows what diseases from the subway platform, you’d think you’d be nicer to me.”

“If you don’t stop talking I will leave your fringed purse here.’

“That’s cruel.”

“Mr. Paramedic Tom, you said your name was Tom right?  This is my first ambulance ride, it’s a little exciting, you know?  Like with the lights on and everything, swooshing through the streets…”

“Well, if you’re lucky, this will be your last ambulance ride.”

“Good point.  You are very nice.  Thank you for being very nice, I appreciate it.  I’m just going to close my eyes for a few minutes.’

“Good idea.” Tom said.

“Ma’am?  We’ve arrived at the hospital.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Paul, do you still have my fringed purse?”

“It’s right here, don’t worry.”

“Oh thank God.  I see a man over there, barfing and that other guy looks like he’s shooting up.  People do drugs right outside the hospital?  Oh God, those poor souls.  Tom, I think you and your partner need to help them, I’m fine.  They need you more than I do, I can walk into the hospital with Paul.”

“Ma’am, just let us finish our job, okay?  We can’t take you off the stretcher, we’re not allowed.”

“Oh, sorry.  Sorry to be a pain.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“Paul, can I have my purse?  I just want to hold it.”

“Here, I’ll rest it next to you on the stretcher.”

“I feel like I’m passing out, even though I’m already lying down.  Why did I collapse like that?  I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Everything is going to be okay, it’s all going to be okay.”

Must Wear Beige

“Oh for the love of God, I don’t want to go to this bridal shower today.  Why do I have to?  Steven – why do I have to go to this godforsaken shower?”

“You owe me,” yelled Steven from down the hall.  “I went to that hideous work event with you so now you have to go to my partner’s third wife’s bridal shower.”

“But she’s a nightmare!  Major narcissist, faux listener, gossips 24/7 & only wants to talk about her farm to table lifestyle blog – which by the way is hilarious because she doesn’t even cook, so what exactly is she bringing from farm to table?  She’s going to be a horrible mother, just horrible.”

“Why don’t you write that in her card, I’m sure she would love those words of support.”

“Very funny.  That whole group are like the Nouveau Millennial Stepford Wives.  And I just ‘can’t’ with the beige theme.  I mean the invite actually said “Must Wear Beige” – who does that?  And you know how washed out beige makes me look.”

“It’s a rough life hon, I feel for ya,” Steven said as he skipped down the stairs.

“Okay, focus Susan focus.  I know I have a light caramel shift-dress in here somewhere, that will have to do.  And my cream vintage sweater with the sequins and rhinestone buttons, that’ll look good together.  

“Steven?”

“I’m downstairs, what?”

“These girls are very minimalist, can I get away with rhinestone buttons and sequins?”

“Have you lost your mind?  You are a grown-ass woman, wear what you want!  As long as it’s not hot pink or lime green, you’ll be fine.  I mean you’re twice the age of these women, so who cares?”

“Nice.  Thank you for reminding me that I could me this woman’s mother.  Like I’m not feeling ancient enough.  They’ll all have that perfect glow-y skin & thick eyebrow-look and I’ll just be sitting there like their plump grandma wearing a loud sparkly sweater.”

“Actually I think her grandma and her mother are going to be there, so you can hang out with them if it makes you more comfortable.”

“So funny I forgot to laugh.  I’m going to murder you.”

“How?  How are you going to murder me.”

“I can’t tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Ha!” Steven said as he rounded the corner into their bedroom with a glass of wine for her.

“Drink this, it’ll make you feel better and I’ll bring you over so don’t worry about driving.”

“Thanks,” Susan said as she took a large sip.

“You can add some lip balm to your cheeks to get that glow-y look you mentioned.  I read about it in The New York Times Style Section.”

“You read a beauty article about using lip balm on your face?” Susan asked. 

“Yep.  I know you’re not a huge fan of makeup and beauty stuff, but some of these products are amazing!  Last week I bought a facial exfoliating cream and I love it.  My skin looks brighter and it’s softer.  Not that you ever noticed.”

“I feel like I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“By the way, don’t forger her name – it’s Astamaria – last time you called her ‘Astralmaria.’”

“I did not, you are such a liar!” Susan said laughing.

Steven kissed Susan’s neck and whispered, “don’t let those gals get to you, you’re my Queen and you’re beautiful as fuck!”

H is for Helena

Helena moved quietly through life.  Disturbing no one. Being a model citizen.  Always towing the line.  Then one morning Helena woke up and thought, “I don’t want to be quiet anymore.”  She called in sick to work, something she had never done in her twenty years of working for the Brexam Accounting Firm.  Her boss was shocked and offered to send someone over with food and medicine.  “That won’t be necessary,” said Helena with a faux cough, “I had the drugstore deliver everything I need.”  Helena was struck by how much she enjoyed lying, the sensation was arousing.

Usually Helena began her day with ten minutes of stretching, followed by a luke-warm shower, a bowl of granola and yogurt and a cup of green tea.  But this morning she skipped the exercise and shower, got dressed and headed out to a swanky hotel restaurant for breakfast. She ordered a Mimosa and Belgian waffles.  The combination of maple syrup and the champagne’s bubbles were perhaps the best thing Helena had ever tasted.  Her waiter was extremely handsome and she flirted shamelessly with him.  As she left the cafe – after leaving him a 50% tip – she whispered in his ear, “you are just delicious.”

Helena grabbed a cab to her local upscale department store and headed straight to the Personal Shopping Department. A woman named Rika, with a severe black bob and thin red lips, asked Helena what she needed help with.  “I need to find the real me.  I seem to have lost her.  My budget is $3000.”  Rika nodded approvingly and motioned to a clothing rack filled with a multitude of styles, colors and fabrics. “Choose one piece that speaks to you, there is no right or wrong.  Just choose the piece that makes you feel alive.”  Without hesitating, Helena followed her instincts and quickly chose a silk, floral dress in shades of eggplant, fuchsia and black.  “Thank you,” said Rika.  “This dress will serve as the inspiration for your new wardrobe.  Also, you need a new hairstyle, you cannot find the real you with that hair.  That hair is heavy with regret, bad memories, a life half-lived.  Joseph at our Salon will cut it, Joseph knows.”

Helena left the store with two garment bags, four shopping bags and something called “a Lob,” which was a silly way of saying a long bob. At home, after carefully putting away all her new clothes and accessories, she poured herself a glass of red wine.  It was an expensive bottle, given to her last year by her boss for Christmas.  She filled a bowl full of pita chips and got in bed.  She turned on the television and watched one of those vacuous Home Hunting shows.  This one featured a woman about Helena’s age starting a new life in Paris.  Helena crunched away, taking in the beauty of the architecture in Paris.  “My God,” she thought, “such a beautiful city.”  She licked the salt off her fingers and took a long, slow sip of wine.  Then she grabbed her laptop off of her bedside table.  She started typing.  Air France. One way ticket, first class.  Date of departure – tomorrow.  A sudden wave of panic overcame her – “my passport!”  She frantically looked in her filing cabinet and there it was – updated and sitting in a pretty red leather case – in a file labelled “Identification Documents.”  Helena exhaled, took the passport and went back to her bed.  After typing in her passport number, credit card info and other information she pressed “Purchase.”  She was not being quiet anymore. She and her “Lob” were going to Paris.