Just a Broken Bowl
Her fingers trace the cold tiles as she sits, surrounded by a small city of cardboard. Her back itches against the plastic of the refrigerator. She pulls her legs underneath her body and forces a crooked smile. Indian style is what they used to call it when she was in school; Gods only know what they call it now. Political correctness and all that garbage. The forced smile turns into a laugh as the empty cardboard to her left shifted and an ear emerges. Soft pink paws rest on the lip of the box and a furry white face looks out, swiveling his head and observing, like a meerkat.
She wipes angrily at the dampness that insists on returning to her cheeks. “Oh Phantom, you are going to miss those empty boxes more than you're going to miss me, aren't you?” He blinks at her and disappears back into his dark cave.
She sighs and opens the next cabinet. She lets a sharp bark escape, a mockery of a laugh. “My tupperware, bitch.” Containers and lids begin to take wing around the kitchen as she picks through the stacks. She reaches toward the back of the cupboard, propping herself up on her knees, grumbling as old crumbs grind themselves into her skin.
She stops flinging things towards their final resting places and her forehead wrinkles. “What the fuck?”
The setting sun shone through the window, glinting off the cyan blue ceramic bowl that was left on the floor. Dried milk and sticky-sweet crumbs of cereal warped the reflection of the blaring television, one of those twisted cartoons. It was a Sunday, just another Sunday. Their bodies lay entwined, and laughter rang out from the couch. The black and white blanket trapped their body heat and the faint smell of dried Axe deodorant. They whispered insults and pet names intermittently. A giggle led to a playful shove, led to him pulling away from her. The edge of the couch loomed. Throwing a leg out to steady himself, he stepped directly into the discarded cereal bowl. There was a whoosh as the air was forced from his chest when he hit the floor. She laughed at him, and was pulled from the couch to join him where he lay. The muffled crack of the bowl went almost unheard.
She holds the perfectly split bowl in her hands, wrinkling her nose at the cereal that is still caked to the edges. That damned dampness had returned to her face, and she shakes herself violently. She rubs her thumb against the rough edges of the bowl where it snapped cleanly and drops it into the garbage, watching the bag crease and reshape around the sharp corners.
Jesus, that was a hard photo to find. I knew I had it somewhere!
She wipes angrily at the dampness that insists on returning to her cheeks. “Oh Phantom, you are going to miss those empty boxes more than you're going to miss me, aren't you?” He blinks at her and disappears back into his dark cave.
She sighs and opens the next cabinet. She lets a sharp bark escape, a mockery of a laugh. “My tupperware, bitch.” Containers and lids begin to take wing around the kitchen as she picks through the stacks. She reaches toward the back of the cupboard, propping herself up on her knees, grumbling as old crumbs grind themselves into her skin.
She stops flinging things towards their final resting places and her forehead wrinkles. “What the fuck?”
The setting sun shone through the window, glinting off the cyan blue ceramic bowl that was left on the floor. Dried milk and sticky-sweet crumbs of cereal warped the reflection of the blaring television, one of those twisted cartoons. It was a Sunday, just another Sunday. Their bodies lay entwined, and laughter rang out from the couch. The black and white blanket trapped their body heat and the faint smell of dried Axe deodorant. They whispered insults and pet names intermittently. A giggle led to a playful shove, led to him pulling away from her. The edge of the couch loomed. Throwing a leg out to steady himself, he stepped directly into the discarded cereal bowl. There was a whoosh as the air was forced from his chest when he hit the floor. She laughed at him, and was pulled from the couch to join him where he lay. The muffled crack of the bowl went almost unheard.
She holds the perfectly split bowl in her hands, wrinkling her nose at the cereal that is still caked to the edges. That damned dampness had returned to her face, and she shakes herself violently. She rubs her thumb against the rough edges of the bowl where it snapped cleanly and drops it into the garbage, watching the bag crease and reshape around the sharp corners.
Jesus, that was a hard photo to find. I knew I had it somewhere!