Short fiction – Page 2

JLo Glow

“You know when you cut open an orange only to realize it’s one of those dried out ones with no flavour?”

“Ya,”

“That’s what I feel like. All my juicy-juice goodness has dried up. I hate being middle-age,” Donna said.

Becky sighed:

“You’ve always been like this. Remember your 25th birthday? You had a meltdown and claimed your life was over and that you had nothing to show for it.”

They laughed.

“Ok, but back to my orange analogy. I could get fillers or Botox, but really I’m looking for ways to get my inside juicy self back.”

“Why don’t you go on a wellness retreat and have an affair.”

“Umm, because I’m married. That’s the worse advice ever, you’re nuts.”

“Affairs at wellness retreats don’t count – just like Vegas, but with green juice. Plus, I read that affairs can actually rejuvenate women better than Juverderm.”

“Very funny. I’ll never have an affair and not because I’m a perfect upstanding citizen. But because I have terrible taste in men. I would end up sleeping with someone completely deranged: the kind of guy who drives a mini-van even though he doesn’t have a family.”

“Oh those guys are creepy. And what about the guys who keep freezers in their garage? Never trust a man with a freezer in his garage.”

“Totally.”

“It’s true that you used to have bad taste in men, but then you married Jack and he’s a decent guy – you could have done a lot worse. Remember Melissa James from college? She just found out her husband has a whole other family. Can you believe that?”

“How do people have the time and energy to keep secret families? Jack and I can barely handle one teenager and two cats. Honestly, I don’t think either of us could pull off an affair, we’re too tired. Even before the pandemic we were burned out. Now it’s a miracle if we’re able to stay up late enough to watch an episode of The Crown.”

“That’s sad,” Becky said laughing.

Donna continued,

“I just watched JLo’s Instagram reels and she is the juiciest fifty-two year old. She literally glows from within. She has this light, happy, sparkly vibe. I bought her entire skincare collection.”

Becky started laughing harder:

“Stop it, I’m gonna pee my pants.”

Donna stretched out on their blanket:

“I forgot to put on sunscreen today,” she said, surveying the park.

“Oh who cares – so you get a few more age spots. If you get enough age spots they’ll blend together and you’ll looked nicely tanned,” Becky said.

“I’m so glad you find me amusing.”

Becky passed a peach scented gum drop to Donna.

“Is this candy or an edible?”

“It’s an artisanal CBD edible. You should see the packaging – so chic. I read about them in Vogue.”

Donna popped it in her mouth.

“Delicious, thanks.”

“Okay, now back to your problem: You need to start putting yourself first. You still make breakfast every morning for your husband and teenage son – like a freaking 1950’s housewife.”

“It’s just this little ritual we have, it’s sweet.”

“It’s not sweet, it’s pathetic. Take that morning time and spend it doing something you like. You love reading those alphabet thrillers. So start your mornings with coffee and a book, the guys will survive without bacon and waffles.”

“I don’t know, it’s like this family bonding time—”

“Is it really though? Aren’t they both usually on their phones?”

“Well, kind of, but—”

“I think that you not feeling your juiciest is partly because you let people take advantage of you, including those who love you. Start making yourself a priority or you’ll become resentful. And nothing ages a woman more than resentment.”

“Wow, you’re fired up this morning. I feel like I have a bitchy life coach. Ok I’m doing it. Starting tomorrow the boys are on their own for breakfast.”

They lay in silence for awhile, enjoying the sunshine and light breeze.

“And a yearly girls trip. We should start doing a yearly girls trip. No partners, no kids, no pets.”

“Jack wouldn’t like that, he doesn’t like me travelling without him.”

“Too bad. You deserve a yearly getaway without any mothering or wife-y duties, that’s not a big ask. You’ve really given away a lot of your power, it’s upsetting. If you want JLo’s juicy vibe you’re gonna have to reclaim your damn power – that’s her secret, not her skincare line.”

A few minutes passed and Donna kicked off her Birkenstocks.

“You’re right, I have given away a lot of my power and it’s a sickening feeling. But because I’ve given away so much of it, it sort of feels impossible to get it back. Like I don’t have enough power to get my power back, if that makes sense.”

“It makes total sense. But I know you can do it. And unless you want to feel like a dried out piece of orange for the rest of your life, you have to do it.”

Becky reached out for Donna’s hand:

“I hope I’m not being too harsh, I just love you so much.”

“I love you too babe. And isn’t my hand soft? It’s JLo’s body moisturizer.”

Photo: Jlobeauty.com

Candy Roses

Dancing in her garden is the tattered lace lady. Every night it’s the same thing. Always dancing, always wearing an old torn lace dress.

Her neighbour leaves a note complaining that her garden is too unruly, that it’s nothing but weeds.

“Not true,” says Michelle, the tattered lace lady the next day.
“If only you would accept my invitation to come over for wine and raspberry biscuits, then I could tell you all about my flowers.”

“No I can’t, but thank you.”

“You have an open invitation all summer, knock on the back gate anytime.”

The next evening, sitting by her side window, the neighbour watches the lady through binoculars. She’s wearing a long black lace dress, tiered like a cake, the bottom tier completely unravelling.

Has she never heard of a seamstress?

This time she’s dancing with two other ladies. Their feet are bare, their hair long and their faces happy-looking. It’s past eleven o’clock, well it’s three minutes pass eleven o’clock and the music is too loud:
But Every Time It Rains
You’re Here in My Head
Like The Sun Coming Out
Oh I Just Know Something Good Is Going to Happen

The neighbour decides that enough is enough. I mean how is she supposed to sleep with all this noise and mayhem? Not that she’s sleeping yet, but she could be, she could be trying to sleep – and that’s the point. She checks her face in the hall mirror, smooths her hair, then marches out.

Knocking on Michelle’s rainbow-painted gate, she’s ready to confront her.

The gate opens:
“Oh look, it’s you! How wonderful that it’s you! Join us at our Blood Moon Party! Come, take my hand.”

“Blood Moon party, is that some sort of witchcraft thing? I’m a Presbyterian so…”

“No, no, don’t worry. It’s just that Blood Moons are very special. They only happen twice a year. So we celebrate with pink champagne, berries and red velvet cake.”

They walk together under the rose-filled pathway to her yard. The coral flowers smelling like candies, begging to be plucked from their vines and eaten.

“Ladies, meet my lovely neighbour Pamela.”

“Welcome Pamela! I’m Jess and this is Christina, may I pour you a glass of champagne?”

“Oh well, I’m not much of a drinker, but I suppose one glass is alright, thank you.”

“May The Goddess of all Moons – The Blood Moon – know we are eternally grateful for her beauty, power and gifts.”

The four women raise their crystal glasses to Michelle’s toast.
The champagne is delicious, the bubbles dancing a little salsa on the tip of Pamela’s tongue.

“Shall we sit and eat cake and berries?” Michelle asks, leading them all to a table covered in – of course – tattered ivory lace.

“You love lace don’t you?” asks Pamela

Laughing, Michelle answers:

“I do, I do. In fact I’m going to a flea market next weekend in search of more lace. Do you want to come with me?”

Old stuff on tables. Dead people’s stuff. Was it at least washed, or did it smell? And really, how much tattered lace can one woman have? Maybe Michelle suffered from some sort of obsessive compulsive disorder.

“I would love to go, I’ve never been to a flea market before.”

Holy Hell, what am I doing? Well, it’ll be like an experiment. I’ll study the flea market people like I study birds.

The ladies start eating cake with berries. Large forkfuls of cake, crumbs falling out of their mouths which they quickly scoop up with their tongues.

Pamela begins with a proper dainty bite, but the cake and berries taste so good that soon she’s eating big pieces, cream cheese frosting painting her lips.

“What sort of gifts does The Blood Moon give?” asks Pamela, curious.

“Well, often you will feel deep shifts in your inner life, you might even get a sudden illumination,” answers Michelle, tying her long hair up in a messy bun.

Sounds very witchcraft-y. But oh well, this cake is so good and the flowers smell like candies and the ladies are so friendly…

“To our guest Pamela: may The Blood Moon bestow upon you a powerful life-changing revelation.”

“To Pamela!” the ladies toast.

Pamela smiles, hiding the fact that she would have preferred a less dramatic toast. This one has her worried that The Blood Moon may bestow upon her something a little too intense.

As the ladies chat, Pamela gazes around the garden and realizes that it’s the most beautiful garden she’s ever seen. She’s embarrassed that she complained about it. Sure, it’s tall and wild, but it’s dazzling.

Thinking about the flea market, Pamela decides she’ll look for vintage crystal glasses. Then she’ll buy herself a bottle of this scrumptious pink champagne and celebrate whatever The Blood Moon reveals to her. She’s up for anything.
I mean not anything anything, but anything.

Artwork: “Vision of Gaia” by Ninquelen on Deviant Art

Roxie

“Beautiful girl, I love you so much. Give me a kiss.”

“Why do you only talk like that to our dog?”

“What?”

“You never call me beautiful. You never tell me you love me and I can’t remember the last time we kissed.”

“You’re being ridiculous. And you’re making Roxie anxious with your weird energy. See how her ears are pointed back? That means she’s worried.”

“Oh Sweet Jesus.”

“It’s okay Roxie, come here. There you go, belly rubs solve everything.”

“And tonight, like every other night, she’ll lie between us – horizontally – separating us so we can’t cuddle.”

“Since when do you like cuddling? You always say that you can’t sleep in my arms, that you need space.”

“I can’t sleep in your arms because I get too hot. But it would be nice to cuddle before going to sleep. You know, like a normal couple.”

“We are a normal couple. Roxie’s eyes are bulging out, the tone of this conversation is upsetting her.”

“Holy fuckety fuck. She’s a dog. I love her, you know I do. But why can’t she sleep in her dog bed? The one in the corner that cost a bazillion dollars.”

“She’s a rescue dog and rescue dogs need extra affection.”

“Do you want out of this marriage?”

“What? No, of course not. Don’t be so dramatic. And don’t raise your voice, you’re scaring Roxie.

“She has you wrapped around her little paws.”

“Roxie, come here, it’s okay. Let’s all just calm down and I’ll turn off the light.”

“I can’t take this.”

“You can’t take what?”

“Your primary relationship is with our dog, not me. You love our dog more than you love me. You engage with our dog more than with me. You show affection to our dog more than with me. Our dog has a better wardrobe than me for God’s sake.”

“I think you’re having one of those hormonal imbalance meltdowns. Why don’t you take a Xanax and we’ll go to sleep. Roxie are you warm enough? Let me just pull this blanket up over you.”

“I just can’t…”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting dressed.”

“It’s eleven thirty, why are you getting dressed?”

“Because I don’t want to drive over to Sheila’s house wearing a nightgown.”

“You’re acting crazy.”

“Actually I’m fully rational and I’m – what’s that saying? – ‘leaning into my power.’ Maybe tomorrow you can take your four-legged wife to her favorite dog park, the one across town. That will give me time to pack my bags.”

“What? Don’t joke about things like that, it’s not funny. We would both be devastated if you left.”

“Actually you might not even notice I’m gone. And Roxie will be ecstatic to have you all to yourself.”

“What if I buy you the wardrobe of your dreams? Will that help?”

“What?”

“You said earlier that Roxie had a better wardrobe than you. So what if I gave you my credit card and you could buy all that Net-A-Porter stuff that I see you coveting on Instagram. Like those black boots with the weird chunky soles.”

“So let me get this straight: your takeaway from everything I just said is, that you think I would be happier in our relationship if I had a wardrobe as nice as Roxie’s?”

“Well, yes. It would be a tangible symbol of my love for you.”

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“Just like an all-around wow.”

“Well…”

“How much?”

“What do you mean how much?”

“How much would I get to put on your credit card for my new wardrobe?”

“Three thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand.”

“You’re negotiating with me?”

“You’re a lawyer, you would negotiate too. Plus, you make a ton of money.”

“Fine. It’s a deal. Five thousand dollars to prove that I love you as much as I love Roxie.”

“Okay then.”

“Thank God. Roxie has calmed down, she can tell that things are better between us.”

“I bet she can, she’s an Empath that Roxie.”

“Actually you’re right, she is an Empath. My sweet little girl.”

(Photo: iStock, NY Times article by Jen A. Miller, March 13th, 2018)

Erica

“Your eyes look different.”

“What do you mean different?”

“I don’t know. Something has changed.”

“Maybe my eyes look happy because my best friend is coming to visit this week.”

“No, it’s not that, they don’t look happy.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Are you trying to say I look older?”

“I mean…your eyes just don’t look like they used to.”

“We’re lying in bed, in the dark, about to go to sleep and from what I understand you’re telling me I look older? Why in God’s name would you say that? I don’t think I’ve ever had a man say something so hurtful to me.”

“Well I mean we all change over time.”

“I feel sick with sadness, like I could vomit tears.”

The next morning Erica stared at her eyes in the bathroom mirror. She did look older, she’d noticed it a little while ago. It was partly hereditary – everyone on her mom’s side of the family got droopy upper eye lids. But for Paul to say something…

Paul regularly said things that left her feeling small. Little things that in the moment felt like nothing, but minutes later left Erica feeling deflated. And she had become so used to feeling this way that it felt normal. Though he said he loved her sparkly, colorful spirit, he was actually snuffing it out one day at a time. And since words left no physical marks, no one could see that she was being hurt over and over again.

Erica was so upset that she ate six Bear Claw cookies for breakfast and gave herself a stomach ache. Lying on the couch for half an hour she tried crying, but nothing happened. Where were her tears?

Her tears were gone. Her tears were gone because her sadness had, unbeknownst to her, turned into anger. And her anger had, within seconds, turned into action. And action took Erica from the couch to Staples, where she bought six boxes, bubble wrap, tape and large sheets of paper.

Erica circled their condo, taking her favorite possessions. Packing quickly, she drank coffee with spoonfuls of sugar. From their bedroom closet she chose only her most loved clothing, folding it in a small suitcase.

Logging onto airbnb she found an artsy, furnished cottage on the opposite side of the city. It was just a few blocks from the water and had a beautiful rose garden. She paid for three months rent and the owner offered to help carry her boxes inside, where she could store them in the den.

She cleaned the coffee pot and put her dirty cup in the dishwasher. On a leftover piece of packing paper she wrote a note to Paul:

You did not break my spirit. You temporarily took the air out of my spirit. You temporarily crushed my spirit. But my spirit is more powerful than you will ever be. My spirit has come roaring back with her drooping eyelids and my spirit has this to say:
“You were lucky to have me, but I’m gone now.”

Lucky Star

TRIGGER WARNING FOR SEXUAL CONTENT

Why can’t I get just one kiss?
Why can’t I get just one kiss?
There may be some things that I wouldn’t miss
But I look at your pants and I need a kiss

“I love your earrings.”

“Thanks. I got them at Le Chateau.”

Why can’t I get just one screw?
Why can’t I get just one screw?
Believe me, I know what to do
But something won’t let me make love to you

“Why do the guys always play this song at every party?”

“They think it makes them cool.”

“As if.”

“I know.”

“Do you think Ed likes me? I thought he did, but now he’s totally ignoring me.”

“Ed is failing French and he’s like barely even cute. You are better than Ed.”

“Okay, okay, thx Jess.”

“Is it just me, or are there no cute guys here? Like not even one.”

“I know, it’s like being at school but with booze. We need new people.”

“I feel like shit, I think it’s these wine coolers. I might throw up.”

“Oh no! Want me to come with you to the bathroom?”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just gonna lie down in Emma’s bedroom for awhile.”

“Don’t choke on your puke! That’s how rock stars always die.”

“I’m not going to choke on my vomit for God’s sake. I’m just lying down for a bit and if I don’t feel better I’m outta here.”

“K. I’m gonna check out the backyard scene.”

“K.”

Emma’s bedroom and bathroom were on the third floor – like her own little dusty rose, wall-to-wall carpeted apartment. Jessie tried throwing up the disgusting Strawberry coolers but nothing happened, so she went into Emma’s bedroom and lay down on the peach-quilted bed.

The bedroom was huge: two single beds, a desk, a long curvy dresser, a Pier One Papasan chair and a vanity table covered with makeup and perfume bottles.

She looked at Emma’s clock radio: 10:45 pm.

“If I don’t feel better in fifteen minutes I’m going home,” she said out loud.

Jessie stared at the ceiling. There was a beautiful crystal chandelier, softly-lit, creating a romantic vibe.

“She even has a dimmer for her light? Jesus.”

She looked again at the bedside table: gold ornate Kleenex box, 2 Swatch watches, one red, one cobalt blue. The newest Cosmopolitan magazine and a heart-shape framed photo of Emma and her beloved, but now dead, cat Gus.

“God I feel nauseas. Maybe I just need to eat something. Did I even have dinner?”

She thought back to earlier in the night. They had all ordered pizza, but Jessie had only eaten a few bites because it was covered in ham and pineapple.

She tried on the cobalt Swatch, it looked good.

A soft knock sounded:

“Jessie, you okay in there?”

“I’m fine Jen, don’t worry, I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“No, it’s Derek, not Jen” said Derek as he opened the door.

“Oh hi Derek, sorry, I thought you were Jen. What are you doing upstairs?”

“I heard Jen talking about you not feeling well, so I figured someone better check on you.”

“Oh thanks, I’m okay. I didn’t eat enough dinner because the pizza was disgusting and then I drank those wine coolers…”

“Wine coolers are never a good idea,” said Derek, sitting down on the bed.

She sighed, “I know.”

“Those football dudes from Sherwood Collegiate just got here and they’re fucking idiots. Who even invited them?”

“I think Sharon whatsername did, she’s into one of them.”

“Sharon smells, like she always smells like baked apples,” said Derek as he lay down next to Jessie. “I mean what? Does her mother bake pies all day? It’s weird.”

“Well, there are worse things to smell like, right?” said Jessie.

“True!” laughed Derek

“I can’t forget to take off this watch before I leave, it’s Emma’s. Can you imagine if I accidentally stole it? Christ.”

“Emma’s too muscular, she’s built like a rugby player,” said Derek.

“I think she’s really beautiful. Like if I were a guy I would totally be into her.”

Jessie started to sit up.

“I feel gross. I’m going home.”

Derek took Jessie by the wrist, the one with the Swatch and lay her back down on the bed.

“Come on, just hang out here with me for a little while.”

“Fine, but for like 5 min max.”

“So, are you and Mike still dating?”

“Mike? No, that’s way way over. I think he’s dating that fake goth girl Chrissy.”

“Oh well, his loss. You’re gorgeous and she wears black lipstick. I mean what’s his problem?”

Jessie laughed.

“Derek, just to warn you, I could literally throw up any minute and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I’m willing to take the chance.”

“Were you and Mike serious?”

“Well, we weren’t not serious, like we only dated each other. At least I think we only dated each other. At least I only dated him.”

Laughing, Derek said, “you’re funny,” then rolled over on his side and pressed himself up against her.

“Kiss me.”

“Are you insane? I literally just told you I feel like barfing and you want me to kiss you? No.”

He slid his hand up her sweater. It was her new Esprit sweater, dark grey with lime green lighting bolts on it.

“Derek, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but just stop it. I don’t want to fool around.”

“Relax, relax, it’s just a kiss,” he said as he pulled his hand off her chest and kissed her.

“Stop, it. I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

Derek started pulling down her black tights.

“Have you lost your mind? Did you smoke too much hash? Get off of me right now or I’ll scream.”

“No one will hear you.”

“Derek, please.”

“Take a chill pill. We’re just fooling around, that’s what people do at parties.”

Derek had lighting-fast undressing skills and before Jessie knew it her tights were halfway down her legs. Her pale thighs exposed and the bottom half of her legs still covered in opaque black. She was wearing her favorite ankle-boots, the ones that looked like Madonna’s in the Lucky Star video.

“Stop. You’re hurting me.”

“I’m not hurting you. God, I didn’t realize you were so uptight. No wonder Mike left you for Chrissy.”

Jessie tried willing herself to throw up. If she barfed, Derek would surely stop.

“Dear God, please help me puke so that Derek gets off of me.”

Derek was now yanking her underwear down.

“I thought you liked Andrea Henderson? She likes you too you know.”

“I know she likes me. I’m going out with her tomorrow night.”

He managed to get her underwear pulled down while he simultaneously unzipped his jeans. All the while he was holding her down with one surprisingly strong arm.

“Please stop Derek. I don’t want to have sex with you. We can do something else. How about I go down on you?”

Jessie had no desire to go down on Derek but thought it was worth a try, it would buy her some time.

“Come on, you know this is better.”

He continued kissing her, mostly on her neck and strangely they were soft kisses. They were everything that his deep, painful thrusts were not.

Out of the corner of her eye Jessie saw a flash of cobalt from her wrist. She focused on it. She thought of the Swatch magazine ad she’d recently seen in Mademoiselle magazine. It was a color wheel of Swatch Watches, every shade of the rainbow. The fluorescent green one had been her favorite. The cobalt blue was nice though, it was a bright cobalt.

Derek rolled off her.

“That was amazing.”

He turned to her and kissed her on the mouth, a long, deep kiss like they were a happy girlfriend and boyfriend couple.

“I’ll see you downstairs Jess.”

As he zipped up and closed the door behind him, Jessie took off the cobalt Swatch and placed it on the bedside table. She slowly pulled up her underwear and her tights. Easing herself off the bed, she made sure to plump the pillow and smooth out the wrinkles on the quilt, like a hotel maid would do.

At Emma’s vanity table she fixed her hair and sprayed her neck where Derek had been kissing her – with a bottle of Beautiful. Looking closely at each of Emma’s seven lipsticks, she finally decided on Maybelline’s “Iced Berry,” which she applied with her fingers. She took a final look around the pretty bedroom and shut the door behind her.

She decided to go pee because she’d once read that peeing after sex prevented infections.

Downstairs she made a beeline for the study, where she found her black purse and vintage leopard print coat under a massive pile.

“Jessie, are you leaving? Did you throw up? I met this cute guy named Trevor, he’s in Grade 11 at Wrightly High. You look super pale, are you okay?”

“Can you call me a cab? I need to get some air.”

“Ya I’ll call now.”

Jessie was already on her way outside.

“It’ll be here in five minutes or less. Want me to wait with you? You look bad. I mean not ugly bad, just like sick bad.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine. Call me tomorrow and let me know what happens with Trevor, k?”

“K. Hope you feel better,” Jen said as she hugged Jessie.

Outside Jessie fished a cigarette out of her purse. Though she didn’t smoke regularly, she always liked to have a pack on her. She inhaled deeply and tried exhaling like the movie stars did in the late night classic films that she sometimes watched.

As her cab pulled up Derek poked his head out the front door:

“Just wanted to make sure you were getting home safely. Have a good weekend Jess.”

Jessie stared at him, tossed her cigarette on the sidewalk and got in the cab.

This story was inspired by a sexual assault I experienced in high school.

Stanley

Stanley awoke from a long luxurious sleep, stretched and then set out walking. He turned down the alleyway behind Greenwood Avenue and headed to the grey duplex with the blue trim, number 105. The back gate was open, so he strolled in. He was hungry and was looking forward to having lunch with Mrs. Blackwell. He sat on her deck for about five minutes, enjoying the mid-day sun while waiting for her to appear. Then he decided to take a stroll through her backyard since she was obviously running late.

Mrs. Blackwell had recently added new planters which were filled with pink flowers that smelled like delicious candies. He also noticed a new herb garden, each herb had its own little sign: “basil,” “oregano,” “mint.” He took a little taste of the mint, it was lovely and made his mouth tingle. In the back corner of the yard Mrs. Blackwell had moved her porch swing, which had received an update with bright new yellow cushions. Stanley decided to wait there since it was out of the sun and under the shade of a big leafy tree. He settled in for a mini-nap while Mrs. Blackwell finished up with whatever was making her late for their lunch date. He dozed happily, enjoying the swaying of the tree’s leaves above him – it was as if he had his own “garçon” fanning him. The sweet garden smells made his stomach gurgle, he could hardly wait to eat.

“Stanley!” called out Mrs. Blackwell. Her voice was soft, with a hint of a Southern twang. Mrs Blackwell had grown up in Texas and though she had lived in Toronto for twenty-five years she still considered herself a die-hard Texan, she even had a “Don’t Mess with Texas” plaque on her front porch. Stanley headed over to the deck and joined Mrs. Blackwell at the patio table under a huge umbrella which she had opened to shield them from the sun. She had set out two plates of food, iced tea (she was Texan after all) and water. She smiled at Stanley, thankful for his company. Ever since her husband Earl had passed away last year she had been terribly lonely. Having a daily lunch companion who lived right in her neighborhood had lifted her spirits and put a little spark back in her step.

She sprinkled salt on her fresh avocado and tomato sandwich and took a small dainty bite. “A little slice of heaven!” she said. Stanley was focused on opening the shell of his giant peanut and extricating the nut. He tried his best to eat as little of the shell as possible. He chirped away happily as he finished his peanut and moved on to his walnut. Mrs. Blackwell loved to watch Stanley eat. It was like watching an artist at work, he ate so speedily, yet with such grace. She told Stanley about her busy morning. She had baked a cake for a friend’s birthday, cleared out her husband’s bedroom closet – which she had been procrastinating about – and called her doctor about the arthritis in her left knee which seemed to be getting worse. Stanley chirped and swung his tail around in sympathy.

As per usual, Stanley took the last few nuts and stuffed them in his mouth. Mrs. Blackwell knew his habits well. Now he would be off to hide the nuts for later and hopefully, if his memory served him, he would remember where he had hidden them. “Good-bye Stanley! See you tomorrow!” called out Mrs. Blackwell. Stanley chirped and scurried away quickly. It was crucial that he bury his nuts before other squirrels noticed that his mouth was full. Otherwise he ran the risk of having them secretly follow him and then steal his delicious, organic, Trader Joe’s nuts. It was a tough world out there, but at least he had his good friend Mrs. Blackwell, she was a gem.

Sally

Sally folded her socks into perfect little balls then lined them up in soldier straight lines. Next she tackled her underwear drawer, folding them in half and placing them in piles according to style: hipster, bikini, briefs. She used plastic dividers that she had bought at the dollar store to separate them. After adding lavender sachets to both drawers, she sat down on the edge of her bed and took a long sip of Chardonnay.

Sally had just finished reading “De-Clutter & Manifest your Dreams!” by Dr. Bryanne Goodwyn. Dr. Goodwyn – a Lifestyle Psychiatrist – wrote that a disorganized home reflected a chaotic psyche, a psyche unfit to receive the universe’s abundance. Therefore, in order to manifest one’s dreams, a person had to first get their home in order. “De-Clutter & Manifest your Dreams!” had come into Sally’s life at the perfect moment. She had been struggling with how to talk with her boyfriend, Derek, about the fact that he had not yet asked her to marry him. But since reading Dr. Goodwyn’s book, Sally realized that she was partly to blame for the fact that she still didn’t have an engagement ring. Sally’s closets, drawers and cupboards were completely disorganized, there wasn’t any room for Derek’s belongings. The message that Sally was sending him was: “You’re not important enough to me for me to make space for you.” Thank God for Dr. Goodwyn, it it were not for her book Sally would’t have realized that she could manifest her dreams, which included marrying Derek.

After organizing all nine dresser drawers and emptying out three of them for Derek, Sally decided to take a break and work on her visualization board. Dr. Goodwyn recommended creating a visualization board for all the things that one wanted to manifest in one’s life. Every morning she advised focusing on the board while repeating these words: “I have de-cluttered my life to make room for my dreams. I am deserving. Thank you universe for your eternal love & please help me on my journey of manifestation.”

Sally’s visualization board was massive, she had a long Manifestation List. The top left corner was dedicated to her wedding, with photos torn out of bridal magazines. It was going to be a summer wedding, the theme – Rustic-Chic, with flowers in mason jars and long, country farm tables. Her dress, designed by Jessica McClintock, was strapless with a sweetheart neckline and was ivory – not white – lace.

The top right corner of Sally’s visualization board was dedicated to her obsession with Corgis – the breed of low-rider dogs that the of Queen of England was famous for owning. She wanted two of them and she had already located a breeder in a nearby state. Their names would be Petal and Charlie. Unfortunately Derek didn’t like dogs, he preferred cats. In fact he took care of his neighborhood’s feral cats, about fifteen of them, leaving food and water out every night and building elaborate cat hang-outs on his front porch. During the winter months he even had specially heated covered cat beds. Sally had some serious visualization work to do on this issue – there was no way in hell that she was going to be known as The Crazy Cat Lady and she didn’t want Petal and Charlie getting fleas or worse, from the wretched creatures. Sally drained her glass of wine and walked over to the fridge to pour herself another one. For a brief moment she worried that perhaps Derek was mentally unstable. The feral cat caretaker thing was a bit much – I mean what kind of person does that?

At eight o’clock sharp the phone rang. It was Derek, he always called her at 8:00 PM on nights when he had to work late. “Guess what?!” he asked happily. “What?!” cried Sally, trying to contain her excitement. “Remember how you told me about that de-cluttering book you were reading and about how in order to manifest our dreams we had to first get our house in order?” Sally was pleasantly surprised that Derek remembered her telling him about Dr. Goodwyn’s book. She always figured that he kind of tuned her out when she started talking about her newest self-help book. “Yes, it’s such a great book, really empowering,” Sally said. “I know, it’s amazing! I read the whole thing in one sitting. Then I took the day off work today and re-organized my entire condo. I gave away eleven bags of stuff to The Salvation Army.” Sally felt a little irritated at the idea that Derek had co-opted her book and one-upped her by de-cluttering his entire place, Sally had only finished her bedroom. “Wow. Congrats to you,” she said, “How do you feel?” she asked. “I feel SO good! Organizing and purging was somehow like the jolt that I needed to move forward with my life. I see things more clearly now.” Sally held her breath, this was the moment she had been waiting for. Although a marriage proposal over the phone was not ideal, the important things was that it was happening. She took a sip of wine as Derek continued. “I’ve realized that my dream is to open a cat sanctuary. I’m taking a six week intensive training course on Animal Rescue, it starts next week in Denver. My neighbor, Mrs. Jubas, is going to take care of my feral cats while I’m away.” Sally exhaled. You have got to be kidding me, she thought. “Sally, I have you to thank for this incredible turn of events in my life. If you hadn’t told me about Dr. Goodwyn’s book, I never would have de-cluttered and manifested my dream. I hope that you manifest all your dreams too. Sally, are you still there?” Not only was her Rustic-Chic wedding not happening, but Derek was a better Manifestor than her. Sally turned off her phone and walked over to her visualization board. She tore off all the wedding pictures, but left up the sections entitled “Dream Home,” “Health & Beauty,” and “Career.” She also kept her Corgi pictures up. Tomorrow she would call the Corgi Breeder. Fuck Derek and his stupid cats anyways.

February

The air smelled clean, like Ivory soap. But then you felt the wind, a cold hard slap on your soft skin. Like a strike in the face from your lover that you didn’t see coming.

Dirty snow crunching. Discarded cans, bottles and garbage seemingly everywhere. Who still litters? It’s 2016, not the 1970’s. The snow is angry. It should be pristine and wedding-dress white. Instead it is brown and mucky, like an old forgotten river.

Crunch. A mitten propped up doll-like on a tree branch. One boot, laces un-done, lying in a bush like a body about to be discovered by the special victim’s unit. A hoodie left lonely and abandoned on a bench. Maybe this was an urban art exhibit by one of those media savvy types, soon to be featured in The New York Times.

The snow actually does make a crunching sound, it’s true. Crunch. Crunch. “Is your dog a lover or a fighter?” asks the man. His eyes are both watery and wild, his energy a mixture of deep sadness and frantic rage. “He’s a Lover” you say, trying to act casual, even though you want to take your elderly one eyed dog and run away across the street. “Good boy, good boy,” the man says as he lovingly strokes your dog. His watery eyes no longer wild, but soft, like pillows. He walks off and you and your elderly one eyed dog watch him go, both suddenly missing him. Why didn’t he stay longer?

Mister Lover stealthily slithers up to a large pizza crust and starts eating. You consider wrestling with him to try and retrieve the dirty pizza, but change your mind. He is old. Let him enjoy his garbage picking, it makes him feel like the King of the streets he once was.

Crunch, crunch. A couple walks by, two women holding hands. They look content. They look like they know that if one of them gets sick, the other will take care of her. A guy wearing grey skinny jeans and a low ponytail ambles along. He is carrying a granny style purse with giant knitting needles sticking out of it.

We finally arrive home. “Slowly baby, slowly” I say to Mister Lover. The front porch steps are slippery and his once powerful legs are now just little twigs. We make it up to the door and he lets out a soulful howl. A “damn that was a good walk girl!” kind of howl. February is really not so bad.

Manhattan

“Manhattan is over. No one wants to live there anymore. It’s all about Brooklyn now,” Stan declared. What a pretentious prick, thought Mark. He put his earbuds in, trying to zone out with music while kicking salt off his boots. Damn weather, he mumbled to himself. He thought about his day and the Epic Fail it had been. His boss had reamed him in front of the whole team. Then at lunch his usual sandwich guy had been out of pastrami, so he’d had to get a chicken wrap. A freakin chicken wrap. He hated wraps. Only pussies ate wraps.

“Brooklyn is where all the artists live, the techies, the movers and shakers. Manhattan is just the old guard now. It’s over,” Stan droned on. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Mark thought. What had he ever done in his life to deserve sitting next to Stan Kolonsky every night on the subway? God had a twisted sense of humor. He closed his eyes and thought about his mom’s meatloaf that he’d be eating soon. She served it with a spicy red sauce. It was a Saracino secret family recipe. He loved his mom. His mom rocked. He saw Stan’s mouth moving but he couldn’t hear him. The Guess Who flooded his eardrums. Searching his left pocket he found a PAM and popped it in his mouth like a tic-tac. He thought about texting Sally to see if she wanted to hook up this weekend. She was kind of dim, but she was hot. His mom was on his case about asking out Carla Rota, the young widow down the street. Carla was good-looking, but there was no way he was dating a widow. With a widow you’re never their #1 man. Their #1 man is always their dead husband. Of that Mark was sure. He started to PAM-out and it felt good. He felt the sharp edges starting to melt away like he was a piece of plywood that had just been sanded down. He smiled at Stan. Three more stops and he’d be home.

Beauty Prep

It was six thirty AM, time for Sharon to start getting ready. She liked to look good for her surgical oncologist’s morning visits. She asked her nurse for a bowl of water and washcloth. Later in the day she would get a proper bath, well, as proper as you could get while lying in bed. But for now she just wanted to wash away last night’s grime. She washed her face, neck and armpits. She followed up with a moisturizing wipe, the kind used to take makeup off, it left her face with an attractive glow she thought. Then she brushed her teeth, using a styrofoam cup as her sink. As soon as she finished, a strong wave of nausea overcame her. Fuckety fuck fuck she muttered. She rode the wave for a few minutes – “nausea surfing” she called it – then thankfully it passed.

She propped up her travel mirror on the table next to her hospital bed. Looking in the mirror her first instinct was always to burst into tears. Her face was pale and scarily thin, she looked like a refugee from some godforsaken country. She had lost twenty-five pounds and her hair was falling out, shedding like a dog all over her pillow. But her daily beauty ritual of “putting on her face” as her grandmother used to say, (may she rest in peace), was essential to Sharon’s emotional survival. It gave her a sense of normalcy and the tiniest feeling of still having some control over her life and body. She applied blush to the deflated apples of her cheeks, plucked a few stray hairs, then added a tinted lip balm. Obviously she didn’t do a full red carpet look, if for no other reason than she didn’t have the energy. She finished primping by putting on scentless hand lotion and wrapping her bright pink Pashmina over her bony chest.

Feeling completely exhausted from the effort she lay back down, but then noticed that her overnight drainage bag was full of urine. Worried that it might overflow, she buzzed her nurse. A different nurse appeared this time. “You’re going to have to start urinating on your own, you’ve had this catheter in for too long, ” the nurse said with a bossy edge to her voice. “My bladder nerves were damaged during surgery, they’re taking awhile to bounce back.” Sharon said, trying not to reveal any emotion. The nurse gave her a chastising look, her expression suggesting that it was somehow Sharon’s fault that she wasn’t able to urinate. Dear God, where was her sweet nurse?

Ten minutes later her surgeon and his team of oncology residents were staring down at her. They always seemed very tall to her. It felt like being surrounded by tall, large headed aliens who were staring down at their human specimen restrained on a metal table. A very handsome resident, Dr. Josh Doukas, pulled her gown aside and inspected her ten inch long abdominal scar. “Looking good, looking good,” he said. She felt humiliated. Her sad little tummy, all mangled and grotesque. Why did Josh have to be so good-looking? “Now let’s take a look at your stoma, how has your output been?” If there is one thing a girl does not want to be asked by a handsome medical resident, it’s “how is the fecal waste matter that is flowing out of the red intestinal stump on your stomach?” Sharon wanted to disappear. Instead she smiled and patted the hideous bag affixed to her belly, the one that was collecting her waste. “It’s working well, though I’m still only eating soft foods.” The surgeon and his team continued to ask her questions and discuss her case amongst themselves. Sharon was a bit of a Cancer Celebrity, in that she had a very rare type of terminal cancer. The doctors, though they made a decent effort to hide it, were actually quite excited to have her as a patient – she was a fascinating case.

After lunch the physiotherapist and her assistant came by to help bring Sharon on a walk. They were both plain looking, lovely young women. Makeup free, hair pulled back in ponytails. The types who wore Patagonia jackets and comfortable European made shoes. Along with Sharon’s bladder, there had also been damage done to the nerves in her left leg. Apparently it had something to do with being splayed out on the operating table for twelve hours. So much to Sharon’s surprise, when she had awoken from surgery she’d found that she couldn’t walk, one leg was fucked up. The three of them walked slowly, Sharon’s urine bag attached to the walker, her giant splinted leg awkwardly inching forward and brutal pain shooting out from her incision area. She had once read about doctors who performed “vaginal tightening surgery” and for a moment Sharon wondered if her surgeon had tightened her tummy while stitching her up. The pain was enough to bring on another wave of nausea. She bent her head into the little plastic barf bowl that the assistant always brought on their walks and threw up a little clear liquid.

Sharon succeeded in making it across her room and halfway down the long corridor. This was considered a victory and for her prize she was offered a pain killer drip and some frozen yogurt. Sharon passed on the yogurt, but was excited about the painkiller drip. Maybe this is what it felt like to be a heroin addict – you looked forward to it, it was the highlight of your day. What if she became a drug addict? Then again she thought, who cares? I’m already dying, so why the hell not? She laughed to herself as the drug hit her body. She felt warm and cozy and happy. The sweet nurse – Louise was her name – stopped in and put a couple of pillows under Sharon’s legs so that they were angled upwards. “Sleep well Darlin,” she whispered to her.