Gladys
I woke up in his bed again. The fan squeaking in rhythmic disapproval. Hot breath against my neck. I’ve memorized the ceiling by now. Its cracks and grooves. I’m late to work. What’s my excuse this time? His father’s shuffling footsteps beyond the door.
Gladys wears a black baseball cap. Tufts of wiry red hair constantly protesting the constraint. Her blue plastic wristwatch refuses to tell her aching back it’s time to go. Nights like these make watches work like memories. Slow to move in any meaningful direction. Quantum physics. He curses his homework over burned toast and greasy eggs. Hand to forehead. Eyes bloodshot. Studying. PhDs in chemistry aren’t typically known for their ease of acquisition. Not like my degree. MA in bullshitting. Strategic Communications. I am the voice of corporate America. Fuck you. Gladys. Coffee staining my notebook from her service. He loves me. Poor thing. The fan won't shut up.
I can’t find Bethie or Lisa. Wandering through the house. Enormous doorways. Darkened hallways. Tiptoe to whispered voices. I feel the door on my fingertips, hear it groan as I push slowly, just enough for my tiny frame to be visible. Why are you in here? Sometimes my six-year-old voice wakes me up with this question late at night. They look at each other. Lisa. The maternal one. We don’t like your dad. Simply stated. Matter of fact. That’s ok. Sometimes I don’t like him either.
I should move to New York. That’s where writers go. New York. Someone once told me that everybody’s got a story in New York. Everyone’s got a story everywhere. Yeah, but the stories in NYC are the ones you wanna hear.
I took down all the ceiling fans in my house today.
Gladys wears a black baseball cap. Tufts of wiry red hair constantly protesting the constraint. Her blue plastic wristwatch refuses to tell her aching back it’s time to go. Nights like these make watches work like memories. Slow to move in any meaningful direction. Quantum physics. He curses his homework over burned toast and greasy eggs. Hand to forehead. Eyes bloodshot. Studying. PhDs in chemistry aren’t typically known for their ease of acquisition. Not like my degree. MA in bullshitting. Strategic Communications. I am the voice of corporate America. Fuck you. Gladys. Coffee staining my notebook from her service. He loves me. Poor thing. The fan won't shut up.
I can’t find Bethie or Lisa. Wandering through the house. Enormous doorways. Darkened hallways. Tiptoe to whispered voices. I feel the door on my fingertips, hear it groan as I push slowly, just enough for my tiny frame to be visible. Why are you in here? Sometimes my six-year-old voice wakes me up with this question late at night. They look at each other. Lisa. The maternal one. We don’t like your dad. Simply stated. Matter of fact. That’s ok. Sometimes I don’t like him either.
I should move to New York. That’s where writers go. New York. Someone once told me that everybody’s got a story in New York. Everyone’s got a story everywhere. Yeah, but the stories in NYC are the ones you wanna hear.
I took down all the ceiling fans in my house today.