I Only Dream of Thunder
Title: In which Edison falls off a bike.
Word Count: 287
"You really should be more careful, sweetheart."
She smells of antibacterial soap and latex gloves and the faintest trace of mail-order perfume. Her voice rasps through the mask. With my head turned to the side I can't look at her, so I feel her, and smell her, and taste her words. She is cooing comfort and the sting-tug of thread through skin, set against a mental soundtrack of the music in my father's garage, old rock with wailing guitars and the machine gun rattle of bass drums.
"When you're out riding your bike, you need to wear a helmet."
My father sits in the plastic chair, and I can see him clearly, the wire-thin mark of his mouth and the careful clasp of his hands in his lap, eighty dollar polo shirt and wrinkle-resistant chinos and his evenly-laced lambskin loafers. Two hours ago he was bent over his workbench, carefully driving miniscule nails into my sister's Christmas gift, his skin coated with a sheen of sawdust beneath the holes in his ratty t-shirt, singing along with the radio. It's amazing what a shower and a change of clothes can do.
"Can you promise me you'll do that from now on?" she asks.
The spaces in between her sentences are an eternity long, punctuated only by the drag of the needle. I've counted to eleven so far. I want to ask her how many more, because my head aches and I want something to drink, but my father's eyes hold mine. I can feel the hammer in his grip, see the perfect label still wrapped around the handle.
"Yes, ma'am," I say.
I don't tell her that I don't own a bike.
Word Count: 287
"You really should be more careful, sweetheart."
She smells of antibacterial soap and latex gloves and the faintest trace of mail-order perfume. Her voice rasps through the mask. With my head turned to the side I can't look at her, so I feel her, and smell her, and taste her words. She is cooing comfort and the sting-tug of thread through skin, set against a mental soundtrack of the music in my father's garage, old rock with wailing guitars and the machine gun rattle of bass drums.
"When you're out riding your bike, you need to wear a helmet."
My father sits in the plastic chair, and I can see him clearly, the wire-thin mark of his mouth and the careful clasp of his hands in his lap, eighty dollar polo shirt and wrinkle-resistant chinos and his evenly-laced lambskin loafers. Two hours ago he was bent over his workbench, carefully driving miniscule nails into my sister's Christmas gift, his skin coated with a sheen of sawdust beneath the holes in his ratty t-shirt, singing along with the radio. It's amazing what a shower and a change of clothes can do.
"Can you promise me you'll do that from now on?" she asks.
The spaces in between her sentences are an eternity long, punctuated only by the drag of the needle. I've counted to eleven so far. I want to ask her how many more, because my head aches and I want something to drink, but my father's eyes hold mine. I can feel the hammer in his grip, see the perfect label still wrapped around the handle.
"Yes, ma'am," I say.
I don't tell her that I don't own a bike.