Marlene, Marlene

"I had a love once," the old man said, muttering into his beard. They were sitting around the campfire, telling stories.

"You never did, nuthin’ but a buncha whores," his buddy said, swilling beer. "Ain’t no one wanna be around you a long time now."


"Once, I said once," the old man said grouchily. "I was young once, not like this." He thumped a gnarled fist against his thigh.

His buddy snorted, spitting a wad of tobacco into the fire. The fire flamed, a bright orange streak that crackled and popped, pine boughs still thick with spring sap. Outside the ring of fire, their bedrolls were rolled tight against the ground’s damp chill. In awhile they would rise, pull the bedding close to the fire and sleep.

But not now. Now they were talking, beating back the edges of the night.

The beer drinker, Gary, could have gone to sleep. He was tired, and more than a little drunk. But there went Harold, telling another one of his damn stories, this one about a woman. Having been many months without one himself, Gary felt he should at least listen to the old man’s yarn. Hell, maybe it would inspire him. The ole trouser plow hadn’t been doing its usual morning stand up and salute routine for a long time now. Gary sighed and threw another log in the fire. "So tell your damn story already."

"I had a love once," Harold repeated. "When I was in the Navy. I was on leave during the War, the big one – you know I was in the war?"

"Yeah, yeah," Gary said testily. "I know. Get on with it."

"I was on leave, was going ashore after four months at sea. We docked and, well – you know how your legs feel after that much time on the water? I staggered around like I was drunk, knocked into this pretty little thing, standing by the gangplank….it was like she was waiting for me."

"See, I tole you. Nuthin’ but a whore," Gary grumbled. "Whores stand by the docks like that -- "

"No, she wasn’t a whore," Harold said sharply. "She was this itty bitty thing with these big, soft boobies," he said, making a wide circular motion on his chest, gripping the fabric of his faded flannel shirt.

"Yeah?" Gary was getting interested. He liked big soft boobies, even on whores. Whores at least let you touch them.

"Well now, me and her went walking out the shipyard like we knew each other forever. I tell you, it was like she was waiting for me."

Gary snickered. "Waiting for your wallet, most likely."

Harold stared him down. "We talked. We walked. We went out to dinner, and later on I took her home, well, she was living in a boarding house, and so we went round back."

"And?" Gary could feel a stirring inside his pants. He shifted in anticipation.

Harold’s eyes were softer now: He was hearing something sweeter than the soft call of crickets in the woods; smelling something muskier than his own unwashed body; tasting something finer than the stale beans and bread and beer he’d had for dinner. "I kissed her. She let me, pulled me in real close, crushing those big soft" – gesturing again – "boobies against me. She tasted good, and, oh, she felt – I felt…" Harold made a pumping motion, clenching and releasing his withered fist.

"Go boy," Gary rasped, giving himself a furtive rub.

Harold looked at him sourly, shook his head. "She made my heart pound, I felt alive, like I never saw the moon or stars before, or the dew on the grass. I kissed her, we kissed, a long time. Then she was gone. Went inside. I went back to the ship. It was only a day leave, we sailed the next day."

Gary looked at him in angry disbelief. "You didn’t do her? You bought her dinner and kissed her and that was it?" He sat back thinking it would be real lonely in his sleeping bag tonight. "I thought you said you had you a woman once. Hey yeah, she was some whore Harold, got a dinner out of you and gave you a lousy kiss goodnight. You’re dumber than rocks, you think that -- "

Harold looked at him, through him. "Hush now," he said, a dark tone underlining the mild words. "You just be quiet. You think a woman is a whore no matter what she does. You never had a woman before--"

"Yeah, and neither did you if you think that’s all there is to it!"

Harold closed his eyes and stroked his beard. "I about had enough of your dirty mouth. I tell you, I had a love once. Now let me finish my damn story."

Gary snorted, then looked closely at Harold. The firelight tattooed his face with flickering shadows. Harold’s eyes were still dark with the memory of that long-ago kiss.

"So finish," Gary said, picking up his beer.

Harold said, thoughtfully: "I wrote her a few times. She never wrote me back, but it was hard to find me, out on the sea. It never bothered me that she didn’t write – I knew how I felt, knew I was gonna see her again someday.

"When the war was over, I sailed back to England, got off on that same dock – I was hoping. Thought I saw her too, but it was a misty day and next time I looked she was gone." Harold laughed at himself. "She didn’t know I was coming, why did I think she’d be there? Some wishful thinking, but I was a kid then, dreaming someone would be waiting for me on the docks the day the war ended."

Gary nodded, remembering a time when he’d loved a girl like that. Then he took another slug of beer. He’d been a kid then, too. Now he knew better.

Harold continued, speaking softly: "I headed over to that boarding house, to ask after her. She wasn’t there – hadn’t been there in….a long while." He paused again, hesitating.

"Go on you old coot. Where’d she go?"

"Was an old boarding house," Harold said by way of explanation. He stood suddenly, grabbed another beer. Popped the top and drank deeply.

Gary swilled more beer himself, then spat in the fire. "You’re making this up, damn you. You ain’t had no love! You ain’t never had nuthin’ since you left the Navy."

"No one been living in that boarding house since 1915," Harold said suddenly. "1915. That woulda been the first one, the first war…I was in the second."

Gary gave Harold a queer look. "What are you saying?"

"The place was abandoned, old. Falling down. No one lived there for a long time. No one coulda lived there, you know?" he said earnestly. "Not even us, Gary – I tell you, it was a mess. I thought at first a bomb hit it, the chimney had collapsed, the roof was bent up like firesticks, you know?"

Silent again, Harold pondered the fire. "I been there, before – just a year before. Stood in the damn yard under an oak tree and kissed that girl. The house was fine. A big white place, with a fancy porch. It was fine. Fine. Then she went in the back door, kinda drifted away, and…I never saw her again."

"I don’t -"

"That house couldn’t change so much in a year, now, could it?"

"Unless it was bombed."

"I thought that too, maybe, yeah, it would make sense. Except it wasn’t bombed. It was just old, falling down: The rest of the houses on the street were pretty beat up too. Like no one been living in that area for a long time."
Gary tossed his empty beer can aside and spat again. "Go on already Harold, we’re outta beer and I want to get some sleep."


"Shush now. I’m getting there. I asked around a bit more, knocked on some doors, went to a few pubs. After a few days, I found her."

"Yeah," Gary snorted. "Probably married and had a houseful of kids. Probably was married the whole damn time."

Harold shook his head. "Cemetery."

"My second choice." Gary laughed, loudly. "Yeah Harold, good ghost story. I’m going to sleep now." He spat into the fire again, then stooped over his bedroll. "I gotta admit, you had me going there for a minute." He laughed again, shook his head. "Chrissakes, haven’t had a camp fire ghost story in a long time, since I was a boy. Whooo-Whooo! Hope I can sleep tonight!"

"Me, too," Harold said softly. "I ain’t done with my story yet. Ghost story or no, I ain’t done with it. And…it ain’t done with me."

Kneeling on the bedroll, Gary looked up. "You had your fun Harold. You got me going, thinking you were gonna tell me about a time you got some good sauce. You told me a real good ghost story instead. So lay off it now and let’s get some sleep."

Harold tugged at his lower lip. Stubbornly, he said, "I ain’t done yet, and now that I started it, I got to tell it all."

Gary flapped his hands at him, a dismissive gesture. But Harold ignored it, mumbled something.

"What?"

"I talked to a few folks, weren’t you listening? They told me about her – about Marlene. Her name was Mar-lene." He sang her name, softly. It was a sigh to his tongue, like the breeze in the trees.

"She was living in that boarding house in 1915. It got closed down after the war, but – she was being courted by a sailor, apparently just crazy for him, and him for her. She hung out at the docks most days, I learned. Before work, after work, a few hours every day, waiting for his ship. That’s where she was the day she found out he died. There’d been a battle, the whole ship went down. Whole crew was gone.

"Ship was the Minotaur," Harold added, speaking slowly, meaningfully.

The two men sat in silence for a long moment.

"And?" Gary was caught again, in spite of himself.

"Well, she couldn’t believe he was gone, so she kept on waiting for that damn ship. But it never came. I heard she came to the dock day after day, staying longer and longer, until she was actually sleeping there. She wasted away, caught a chill and died." The old-fashioned words sounded odd dropping from Harold’s lips, yet came with a gentle dignity.

"I saw her grave, read her headstone. Mar-lene," he said again, whispering her name like a talisman. "But folks say it didn’t end there, they say she’s still waiting there for the ship, for her beau to come walking down the gangplank."

Gary felt a stab of uneasiness. Even if this was a ghost story, and hell, he’d heard a dozen like it in his day, Harold was telling it well. A thought occurred to him, making his heart pound: "Hey Harold, what was the name of your ship?"

"Minotaur. A U.S. ship, not British, but…I guess that didn’t matter." His rheumy eyes narrowed. "Funny how we both had ships the same name, isn’t it?"

Gary nodded, a small shiver teasing his spine. Then he had another thought:

"And you – did you look like – him?"

Harold laughed, a rueful sound. "I talked to enough people, finally saw a picture of him and her together. Gave me a turn, yeah, we looked alike…Enough to fool her ghost anyways."

Gary spat. Laughed, an uneasy jagged sound. He stared around the woods, at the moon caught in the branches of a sycamore. "I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe your story. I think you're drunk off your ass – but – if I did, how could you fool a ghost?"

Harold shrugged. "Ghosts are just dead people. They see what they want to see, just like when they were alive."

Gary pondered this, shook his head. "Harold, you did it again. Told me a real good ghost story, and you were right, you just had to finish. Now you did, so lay down and go to sleep." He kicked open his sleeping roll, pulled off his worn boots and lay down.

"I went to the cemetery," Harold repeated. "Found her headstone. Read the dates. Gary, she’d been dead nearly 30 years when I saw her."

"Quit the damn story now Harold, I’m on to you."

"No Gary. Listen to me. I went to dinner with a ghost. Held her hand. Talked to her like I’d known her forever – and then kissed her. Gary," he said urgently. "I fell in love with a ghost, and she fell in love with me. Or was in love with me already."

"So what happened at her grave?" Gary asked tiredly. "Was she there waiting for you, arms open wide, long hair blowin in the wind?"

"No."

Gary snorted, spat.

"I cleaned it up a bit, put flowers on it. The headstone was crumbling, so when I left I took a small piece of it with me, just to remember her by."

"But she wasn’t there," Gary repeated.

"No, she was waiting for me at the docks when I went back to my ship."

Gary bolted upright, peered at Harold over the dying fire. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Harold smiled, his eyes shining at the memory. "It’s like I told you, I had a love once. She was beautiful and sweet. She was waiting for me, with open arms. I pulled her close, held her – kissed those red lips, felt those wonderful soft boobies again….It didn’t matter that she was dead. I was in love. Stayed that way all my life."

Gary peered at Harold over the dying fire. "Even now?"

"Even now."

"She here?" Gary asked dubiously, looking around the campsite. He plucked at his sleeping bag; he couldn’t tell if Harold was kidding or not this time.

"Always. She’s a real cuddler, Mar-lene is, sleeps next to me every night."

"You drunk old coot!" Gary howled. "That’s three times now! You tell a good story, but I’ve had it with you. So shut your damn mouth and go to sleep!" He flopped down again, closed his eyes. "Damn you and your damn ghost stories," he muttered. "We’ll be dead by morning…that’s what I used to believe as a kid, hearing stories like that before bedtime."

Harold sighed. Nudged Gary with his foot. "I worry about what’ll happen to her when I die."

Gary’s eyes flew open, he groaned impatiently. "What the hell are you talking about now? You think you’re gonna die?"

"Of course I do, dammit. I’m old, lots older’n you."

"So then you’ll be a ghost, have her all the time to keep you company."

Harold shook his head, irritated. "I don’t think it works that way, I think she likes the living, don’t think I’ll ever see her again when I die," Harold said sorrowfully. "She’s been the love of my life all these years – and I don’t want her to be lonely when I’m gone."

"Ghosts don’t get lonely. They’re dead," mumbled Gary. He looked up at Harold again. "They’re dead. You’re alive." He yanked the bag over his head, stretched his legs down to the bottom. He was warming up now, drifting off to sleep.

"Gary, I want you to do something for me -- "

A loud groan barked from the bedroll.

"I want you to take care of her. Mar-lene. When I’m gone."

The black sleeping bag wiggled then, and Gary’s head peeked out. "What? What did you say? You want me to take care of your lady love? Your ghost?"

Harold nodded, slipping his hand in his back pocket. "Let me --"

"Dammit! Harold whatsa matter with you anyway? You keep adding and adding on to this damn ghost story like it was real or something. It ain’t real. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe your story. I don’t believe ya gotta rock from her damn grave. Only rocks around here are the ones in your head!"

"Gary – let me explain."

"No. No. Let me." Gary dragged himself upright again. "You are drunk and crazy tonight. Drunker than I ever seen you – lie down dammit and go to sleep. You’ll be all right in the morning." He flopped back down, burrowing into the bag. This time he yanked the zipper up, encasing himself in a down cocoon. Only the top of his head was showing, a dark clip of hair. A few moments later, Harold could hear the first ragged snore.

Harold paused, deep in thought. He pulled a piece of granite from his pocket. It was small and gray, rubbed smooth from years of being caressed and cosseted in every pair of pants he’d ever worn. "I sure do love you Mar-lene," he whispered. "But I got to be going on now."

He looked over at Gary. "I’m gonna leave her with you. You’re a rotten grouch, but I think you’ll do right by her."

Gary snorted, kicked in his sleep.

Harold set the rock next to Gary, tucking it down between his neck and the bag’s flannel sides. He stood, looking down for a long moment.

"Stay warm, my sweet," he whispered. Then he gathered up his things, and walked quickly away. In a few days he would be found, an empty husk of a man, curled up next to a cold fire.

Meanwhile, Gary dreamed of a woman. She had long dark hair. Green eyes set in an oval face. Full red kissable lips. And boobies. Big soft boobies that he could play with as long as he wanted. He did, and the dream became real, so very real, that Gary imagined soft legs wrapped around him, a thrumming release that left the inside of his bag damp and smelling of lilies and musk.

In the morning, he awoke slowly, his mouth dry and flat, tasting like the dregs of sour beer and overcooked beans. Gary opened his eyes, squinted at the cold, gray light. Not quite sunrise, another hour to go, he thought dimly. He shifted, felt the damp spot, shifted again, dragging his bare legs across – and – the thought pulled him fully awake. Why'd I take my pants off? he wondered. Then he touched the damp spot again. Raised his fingers to his nose, sniffed. A flutter in his groin told him, reminded him, of what he already knew. The scent of a woman. In his bag.

Gary bolted upright, thrusting his head out of the bag's tightly laced opening. The chill air made him catch his breath. He blew frosty donuts into the air as he groped in the bag, finding his discarded sweatshirt and jeans. Wiggling, struggling, he pulled them on, then unzipped the bag. His socks were still on, and his boots were right where he'd left them. Jamming them onto his feet, yanking the laces, he looked around the camp, scanning for Harold. Finally staggering to his feet, he yelled. "Harold! Hey Harold! Where the hell are you?"

He stumbled, still slightly hung over. He squatted by the fire, hands fumbling as he pulled together newspaper and kindling. Striking a match along the side of his boot, he finally got it lit. He looked around again. "Harold! You takin' a piss?"

A crow scolded him for his early morning shouts.

"Yeah, you shut up yourself!" he shouted back, waving his arms for emphasis. The crow flew away, black wings fluttering against the brightening sky.

Gary rubbed his eyes, and made for the trees himself. Yanking his jeans open, he peed against a spill of rocks and ferns. Turning back to camp, he realized that Harold's gear was gone. Gary spun in a slow circle, trying to see if Harold was in sight. But the dense trees blocked his view down the valley, and the gray sky yielded no telltale smoke stripe. He sniffed, checking for the god-awful odor of Harold's cooking. Nothing.

"Harold!" he roared. He clutched his ears and groaned, sinking to his knees as the headache pounded his head like an hammer on steel. He crawled to the fire, squatted beside it. He dug around in the cooler and found a beer bobbing in the slush of melted ice and moldy food wrappers.

"Ah! Missed one!" Gary crowed, pulling it out and shaking the extra water off. Popping the top he took a slug; the alcohol soothed his spinning head and he could think more clearly. He fell against the cooler, closing the lid with a snap. He stretched his boots toward the fire, thought about last night.

"You son of a bitch," he muttered, thinking about the ghost story Harold had told. And how he'd asked Gary to watch out for Mar-lene. "Damn, I guess I did watch out for her alright," he said aloud, his self-satisfied grin dying when he realized he'd dreamed of having sex with a ghost. His fingers twitched. He looked down, raised them again to his nose. It wasn't a dream, he thought queasily, hell I've gone and fucked a ghost.

His heart pounding, this time with a mixture of fear and longing, he stood up again. "Harold! Harold! Where the hell are you?"

Gary tramped around the campsite, looking for tracks, for signs of Harold or his gear. After a quick search, he turned back, thinking he'd warm up, break down camp and look some more. He can't have got far in the dark, he told himself.

"Damn you, you crazy coot, you and your talk of dying!" he shouted then, mindless of the throbbing pain that banded his head like an iron wreath.

By now the fire was burning steadily. Gary walked towards it, skirting his open sleeping bag, when something caught his eye. He stopped, and looked, his jaw going slack.

It was a stone, a small gray stone. It was smooth and rounded, as if the edges had been polished off. It no longer looked like a chunk of granite from a headstone, more like a pebble from some sandy beach.

"Harold?" Gary's voice shook a little. "Harold, what is this, some kind of joke?”

Gary knelt down, afraid to touch the stone. He squinted at it, then sniffed. It smelled like lilacs and musk and made him think of lace stockings and smooth thighs. He studied his fingers again, the rumpled insides of his sleeping bag. He gently picked up the stone and slid it into his pocket.

by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved

After the funeral

She was hungry.

She walked into the kitchen, the heart of the house. His smell was not here, not like in the bedroom, on his pillowcase; or in the bathroom, his fine silver hairs scattered in the sink. Instead, a tangy, overripe odor caught her midstep. She paused, her eyes sweeping the gleaming countertop.

It was an orange.



From where she stood, she could read Sunkist on the label. Late afternoon sunlight backlit the orange, giving it a dusky glow and casting a round shadow in the basin of a giant fruit bowl.

Her hand fluttered to her throat, squeezing tight against the tightness that was already there, a tightness that was always there, lately.
It's just an orange, she whispered, stepping back, ready to flee the kitchen and all that round fruit represented.

Just an orange - and her mind scattered back a dozen years, to the early days of their coming together.

"Here," he said then, picking up the round fruit. "Let's share this." His strong fingers dug into the pitted skin, his nails whitening as he dug in, dug in, first creasing, then tearing the tough hide. The skin split and his fingers widened the gap. She leaned back, expecting the juicy spray that Sunkist crowed was a hallmark of its Florida goodness. No spray -- just a slow ripping sound as the peel lifted away, exposing a thick white covering.

"Oh, I don't really like oranges," she had said then. It was true.

But he persisted, and his will prevailed. For the next seven years they shared two oranges a day, a lunchtime ritual she would miss sorely when she changed jobs.

She hated to peel oranges herself, and so never ate them again.

He had learned to love sharing oranges with her; when she left he began playing cribbage at lunch, and so never ate them again. The juice made the cards sticky, he said.

Alone now, standing in her kitchen - their kitchen! she picked up the orange. It was heavy and old, its skin wrinkled and puckered. It looked like the world to her now - a small universe of sweetness buried under a thick shell. She remembered the rest of the fruit basket: grapefruits and bananas. She'd eaten those and never noticed the orange.

She studied the orange, walking her fingers along the lumpy skin. At the navel, she paused, thinking about how everything has a beginning, and an end. She touched her own navel, through the worn cotton shirt she was wearing. An outie, just like the orange. She wondered briefly where her next connection would be, then started to cry.

She sat, and placed the orange on the table. She studied her hands: nails split, but serviceable.

She picked up the orange, considering.

Slowly, she dug in her fingers. First the skin creased, then it tore. Juice spurted, a slightly rancid smell. She carefully pulled the skin off, piece by piece, building a small pile on the table. This orange, like the first one they shared, was covered in a thick white rime. Underneath she could see pale orange ripples, the segments of the fruit waiting to be pulled apart one by one. She carefully carved away what she'd always called white gunk. It took a long time; she wanted every shredded thread gone.

As she worked, she thought. Memories of him piled in, one on top of another. That first day, sharing the fruit. Other days, enjoying the orange glow of a sunset at the beach. Years whirling by, colored with the wonder of having found him, her soul mate, and as their love grew, it rounded off her rough edges, softened his coarse ways. It had grown, bigger and rounder and fuller than the juiciest orange they had ever shared.

And then her world burst, flattened by fate. She paused, looking down at her hands, the naked orange, the pile of skin.

Now the orange was a pale gold ball, suffused with its own internal glow. Fingerholes pocked the surface, marking spots where she had dug in too deeply. Juice had oozed out, creating shimmering streaks on the table.

She pulled apart the orange, its snickering separation causing her to shudder in familiar recognition. She laid each half-moon segment on the table, creating a circle, then a sunburst, next a rainbow.

Finally she shaped his name, and ate the pieces, one by one.

by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved

Memories of 4711, not 007

Dedicated to my Grandma Sally; she died 12.1.2007

It’s a big bottle, with square-cut sides. The teal and gold foil label is an ornate design that hearkens back to a vintage era. The liquid on the inside: spun gold; a cologne, a body splash, a scent. The screw top whirls on glass threads easily; the cap slips off and contents slosh loosely over cupped palms.

A dash here, a splash there; perhaps just a careful daub on the wrist.

4711 has been around as long as I can remember, always holding a place of honor on grandma’s dresser. Over the years her hair has grayed, her body stooped. She has lived in threes home since I’ve been able to count and the bottle that holds her scent is always there; its evocative, musky tang an immediate El Train ride back to my childhood.

To smell 4711 is to know her neck, the soft spot where I used to rest my cheek. Her hands, cooler with age now, used to soothe me, leaving her whisper of love on my hair, my clothes.

Produced in Austria, there was a time when 4711 could not be bought in America. She had her brother ship it from England, an extravagance that left pre-teen me looking for 4711 in department stores. I wanted to find her scent here, to make her a present of the unattainable. This was the quest that taught me to yearn; to desire, to dream about success against the odds. A bottle of cologne, whose first two numbers add up to the last two, taught me that some things are precious and should be protected and nourished.

Too many years have gone by since I was a small child in grandma’s embrace. My infrequent trips home show me the hard truths of aging; a dear life winding down. While so much has changed, the bottle of 4711 on the dresser has not. Neither the bottle, its labeling or distinctive odor have altered one bit in more than 30 years. It is a lesson in continuity; to me, it spells love.

It is this sweet nostalgic yearning that draws me to the elaborate display of 4711 in my hometown department store. I am struck by its existence; my unexpected success after so many years of searching. I’ve never seen so many bottles, so many sizes, in one place.

Hesitant, I approach the table, pick up the tester. The cap twists off easily in my hand. I shake a few drops onto my wrist; it dries quickly, leaving a cool tingle. The familiar odor tickles my nose and my heart flutters. I’m a child again, being with grandma, eating Neopolitan ice cream and playing with Chock Full o’ Nuts coffee scoops. I can see the Rockettes high-stepping their way around the grand stage in Radio City Music Hall; I remember climbing hundreds of stairs to reach the top of the Statue of Liberty.

I remember feeling surrounded by love –

For the rest of the day I can smell my grandma in the echoes of 4711.

by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved

Liar, liar

Mary calls. She's crying.

"I'm leaving him. Warren."

My stomach tightens a little at this, a rollover that feels like a slow-moving breaker out on the sea. I don't know what to say, so I sit in careful silence, press the phone a little tighter against my ear.

She sobs uncontrollably for a moment, and then pauses, her breathing ragged and wet. I can feel her misery soaring through the wires, wrapping itself around my heart, my imagination. I finally think if something to say:

"How come?"

"He hit me."

At her words my left hand flutters in my lap. Unbidden, it starts to knead the fabric of my jeans, pulling it taut over my thighs. The pinprick hole in my heart suddenly begins to widen, a tiny blister of pain that is on the verge of being lanced.

"You're only married eight months," I mutter, and as soon as the words slip out, a part of me recognizes the absurdity of that remark.

Dead silence, then: "What, you think I should stay?" No reproach in her voice, just confusion, the dawning thought that whatever far out occasion caused him to strike her might have somehow been her fault, and that she might not have the right to leave.

I say nothing. I have nothing to say because I don't have a very good answer myself, but she doesn't know this. Can't know this. House rules.

She's crying again, and it's a frightened sound, full of the dark undertones of a fox with its paw caught in a trap. She loves this man, and he has hurt her. I try and block out the spasm of recognition, the urge to confess my sisterhood. Now is not the time for me to talk, it is my time to listen and say the right things.

"No matter what happens, he doesn't have the right to hit you," I say bravely.

"That's right." She stops, and the phone clunks down.

Over the long distance line I hear her fumbling, knocking over an object that crashes dully. I flinch, and my heartbeat quickens. Guiltily, I glance around the room, but the door is closed. The TV in the den is on, blaring basketball scores. I can hear his hoarse shouts, the sibilant hiss and pop of another beer being opened. I wonder how such a soft sound can echo so loudly.

You know why, a little voice whispers. You know what it means.

"Sorry." Mary's back. "I had to find a tissue." She blows her nose then, a brisk honking sound.

If I close my eyes I can see the soggy tissue, probably capping off a sodden stack. I bet it's about ready to topple over, like her marriage. Or maybe she's just holding it, shredding it in her lap, covering herself in tiny white flakes of sorrow. If she stays long enough she can make a blanket of tissue dust and cover herself completely.

I stare down at my left hand, see how it has twisted the fabric of my jeans. My wedding ring twinkles in the dim bedroom light.

"…Susan?"

I jump. Hadn't been listening.

"Tell me what happened," I say now, tensing myself for the words to come.

I suddenly feel weightless, a drifting sensation pulls me out of my rose-colored room and into the chilled night air. I am outside myself hearing something I don't want to know about someone I know very well.

For a moment I'm confused, wondering if I'm thinking of Mary or myself.

She's crying again. She's not ready to say. Not yet. But I feel it ballooning in her mind. What happened. What led up to the hitting. And what she did wrong. She's adding backwards, and then dividing herself in half.

I know if she stays she'll divide in half a few more times, until she is a bunch of little pieces that live inside the Mary mind. There will be these boxes, all shapes and sizes and colors; compartments of personality, stacked in her mental closet. An elaborate filing system of hats and shoes, accessories she will seek out and wear to suit whatever maelstrom is hurricaning through her home.

I call it coping, and in that moment, I see nothing wrong with it. I want to say this, offer a reassuring answer to the agony in her voice. But I don't, because the words I have can't push past the small inner voice that has been chattering at me lately.

"When will you go?" I ask instead, and in that question I surprise myself: I ache for her answer. I yearn to hear tonight, tomorrow or next week. Anything but next year because one year is the same as five.

"I don't know. I haven't told him yet."

I exhale noisily. Relief? Pity? I'm not sure. But my words don't hesitate.

"You want him to hit you again? If you stay he will."

I look up then, catch my reflection in the dresser mirror. I wasn't expecting this face-to-face moment, and my expression, unguarded, is frightening in its intensity. I twist away, pummel my leg with my left hand while the right squeezes the phone in a blistering grip.

"If he hit you, you shouldn't stay."

"I know." And I think she does. But knowing and doing aren't the same at all.

A long silence pulls my nerves. Suddenly Mary's words bolt across the wire:

"We were fighting about money. I got my bank statement in, found out he had spent more than $5000 in a month. On what? I don't get it. And he wouldn't tell me and I got really mad and started yelling at him – we might be married but that was still my money. It was my money before we got married, never mind the joint account – and Susan – he grabbed me and threw me against the wall. Then he hit me…and then he hit me…"

"Ohhh, Mary." I tuck forward, protecting myself from what I just heard.

"Susan…I know you had a hard time when you first got married…but…did he ever hit you?"

There it is. The question. It hangs like a perfect pearl in the air between us. Fragile in its simplicity, it begs for truth.

I glance down at my left hand again, automatically tilt the ring so it catches the light. I jab my hand until the wedding band flips around, sparkling diamond facing inward, its sharp edges cutting my palm. I squeeze my hand hard and open it, study the imprint that turns white then red.

I say: "No. No, he never has."

Mary draws a deep breath, and tells me in a shaky voice that I don't know what it's like.

She starts to speak again, but I can't hear much over the sudden shrilling in my mind.

Liar! Liar! Oh you liar liar liar! How can you lie? Why do you lie? Oh you will pay for this, pay for this, you liar liar liar!

I squeeze the phone, my left hand, my heart. But the words keeps echoing in my mind, so loud they must be stopped because they might be overheard.

Liar! Liar! Oh how you lie! You can tell her you should tell her you need to tell her – get out get out get out oh you lousy lousy liar!

"Get out!" I plead softly. "Mary. Please, don't stay."

I shake my head, but the shrilling continues.

She cries. I don't.

I hear a noise, and I slide up the bed, pressing against the headboard, my back to the wall.

The door flies open. He is standing there, staggering unsteadily, his brow fiercely tangled, his eyes red and angry.

The game is over. I think the Blazers must have lost.

"I have to go now," I say.

And I put down the phone.

by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved

The importance of clean feet

Sitting on the toilet, left foot propped over right thigh, skin on the big toe soft and puckered from the bath.

In my right hand, a nail clipper.



Grasping the sides of my big toe firmly, I bring the clipper down, tweeze the white skin over the ball, shredding it.

No callus today; that was several weeks ago, before I fell into the passion of cutting apart my feet. If I didn’t bathe first to swell the skin there would be nothing to grab.

Now I’m bearing down on fragile flesh that tears, layer by layer, until all the white is gone and a bubble of red oozes out of the cross-hatched opening.

I ignore this first sign of success; instead re-angle my foot. Lightly, gently, I turn it, peering at the skin that is now rough and ridged, pleased to see I have created more surface to grab, cut, make smooth like it was before the bath.

Pinhole becomes hole; hole opens to maw: tiny lips gape.

My heart flutters; I am excited by the ripped flesh, the view it offers into my body. I wish to cut all the way to bone, but I’m scared; I already know no one does this but me.

Fascination turns to betrayal: The new mouth sings pain so I squeeze it hard, relaxing as the blood crests, runs, down the side of my foot, onto my leg.

I shift the clipper away from the big toe, down to the fleshy pad of the foot. Jaws open, snatch, close, pull, tear, bleed.

Pain. Not just my foot, but outside that locked door, down the hall, past my room, my sister’s, into the living room with brown shag carpet and plaid wallpaper. In there the TV lives and my father snores.

Both feet are clean, raw, bandaged. Dead flesh clings to the clipper, the sides of my fingers: fat wormlike chunks I ignore now that they are off my feet.

The bathtub swallows my secret.

When I was 14 years old, I cut my feet daily for about six weeks. It scared me: how the very idea came out of nowhere, the compulsion, the relief, the shame. It wasn't until a friend bragged about her calluses being so thick she could stand on a hot Arizona sidewalk that I found the courage to stop.

by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved

High stakes love

“I love you,” Jenny said, wrapping her arms around Tom. “You mean everything to me.” They kissed, a long cling that made her heartbeat flutter.

Tom pressed warm lips into the side of her neck. She could feel the soft bristle graze across her skin. She stretched, a languished feeling that made her think of a cat pulling itself long, thinning itself out to enjoy a patch of warm sunlight.

His hands dropped from her shoulders, to her waist, encircling her hips. He pulled her forward, crotch to crotch. The rocked for a moment, layers of clothes rustling softly. “I love you too,” he said, a warm exhalation in her neck. They had watched UP earlier that day, now his grip tightened. “That movie made me feel so old.”

Tom was 15 years older than Jenny. It was a fact they’d danced around all the years they’d been together. Neither could imagine life without the other, neither could stand the thought of the age difference and what it meant in terms of log-term companionship.

“I knew the stakes when I married you,” she reminded him. “I took the whole package.” Her eyes were burning. Too much love, too intense. “I’d rather spend ten years with you, knowing I’ve been truly loved, than ten years with anyone else and never getting half as much.”

Stockpiling, her mind whispered. Collecting hugs and kisses and squeezes and sweet loving words. Insurance against long lonely nights she hoped would never come.

He pulled away and looked at her. “That’s sweet.” He kissed her again, lightly. They held a moment longer, and then let go. He climbed back on the ladder. “Can you hand me that screwdriver?”

by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved

Freedom's cost

There was this needlepoint: A medieval scene of two horsemen dressed in silver mail, two horses rearing, mouths opened, teeth bared, spittle flying. The knights were bathed in a fiery glow of orange and red, tinged with blue heat and tips of hellish glory.

It was a violent tapestry and my sister and I loved it, were fascinated by our mother’s miraculous progress of creating this six-foot canvas night after night. Black, gray, silver threads made this garish nightmarish scene come alive. In days, in weeks, in six months that giant needlework was done.

“Frame it!” my sister and I clamored. My mother became ill at ease every time we asked to see the picture.

“Why do you like it? It’s a nightmare,” she said.

Finally, she framed it, in dark burled wood. Then we found it hidden under her bed. We begged her to hang it, in the hallway, the main line into our house. When we moved to Arizona she left it behind, claimed it was too big, too expensive, too gaudy to move.

Years later she told me that she started the needlepoint to calm her relentless anxieties, to still the panic that invaded her nights, to quell the nightmares that plagued her still from the Nazi camp, across the ocean and into her new world. This needlework was meant to expunge the fears, slay the bad dreams. It was not meant to be seen by us, framed, or hung.

Too see it in the light of day was to remember and realize the cost her freedom.

by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved

Everlasting

The last time I saw my mother she had an expression on her face I cannot name to this day. My mind supplies me with a stern look, brown eyes glinting, mouth slightly open, her last words rising to the ceiling where fan blades caught and twirled them back down to me. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. I don’t respect you.”

I have other pictures of my mother, ones where she stands clear, sculpted in sunlight or shadow, limned by the fluorescent lights in the kitchen, dappled by dangling plants in an outdoor tacqueria we used to frequent when I’d come to town.

I have memories of her smile – the look of delight when she’d see me standing at the arrivals gate at the airport, a look of expectation, an almost unbridled joy, her words, “I couldn’t wait to see you. You look good. I’ve been counting the days.” And my father: “She was making me crazy. Watching the clock. Afraid we’d be late.” More than a loving look; it was my mother’s face and for a decade of visits home it was etched and clear and beautiful in my mind.

But she gave me that look, and used those words. Her posture, ramrod straight against the curved back of a plush couch. Tiny feet tucked under a black dress. Tinted hair framing a hard-lined face, lips a nibble of flesh.

We had just buried her father, my grandpa. It was also my birthday, a day she suddenly refused to acknowledge. After 38 years I was shrouded by an old man who welcomed the respite from living.

The last time I saw my mother was the first time I saw her burning need to control an unordered world. Her ironclad will could not stay the family carousel, so she scattered the horses and trampled the riders.

Nothing in her face, her harsh stare, called out to me. Those dark eyes like mine offered no ledge for me to hang my hands, dig in my nails, lay down my heart. Her look was a dictum: Apologize or be decimated. I hadn’t done anything but get married, grow joyful: “shunted aside and ignored,” was her accusation.

That moment, now a memory, lies thickly over all others: My mother extracting a price for unconditional love equal to the cost she paid to give it. No change permitted in her tight little world; I saw my life through her eyes coalescing, telescoping, into one hideous moment of clarity: She had no sense of me.

I left the house that day, my mother’s words clinging to me like the red clay I sprinkled on grandpa’s coffin. Burial of a different sort; anguish tamped down six feet, emerging a time later as this: The last time I saw my mother there was an expression on her face that I no longer choose to name.

by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved

A handful of red dirt

Today we are burying grandpa.

After a long drive on Arizona freeways, a stone archway heralds where the Jews are buried. The car windows are shut and cold air blows. I face the glass, stare at the grass and trees and flowers unraveling along the sides of black ribbon. Next, headstones, announcing lives beginning and ending; unfolding, folding, like the paper fans I’d made as a child.

I am a Jew by birth, but I do not know what my faith means to me. This blankness is a flaccid muscle, waiting to contract. Right now, it’s smooth and white and still, a sharp pebble in a cold stream. I touch my eyes. They are dry. My husband strokes my hand. Tells me his love.

We get out of the car, pass through a field of silent stones to a grassy area covered by a canopy. I can see the casket, a row of chairs, a cluster of people. The rabbi is there, and someone else is handing out yarmulkes and black lace caps. I take one, my mother pins it to my hair. It is the first time she has touched me since I came home two days before. I stare at her, but now is not the time to talk.

She turns away and I do too and go over to the canopy, the chairs, the casket suspended on a winch. A tidy pile of dirt frames the scene. I can’t see below the coffin. I don’t want to. It is enough to stand there and look. See the casket, the canopy, the chairs. Sit in a chair, under the canopy, stare at the casket. My sister sits down next to me. My cousin rolls her chair around to the other side. They each take a hand. My sister’s is ice cold, like a water glass, clammy. Robin’s is hot and coarse, and I think of the rubber treads on her chair, the groove it makes as it creases soft flesh. I wonder what tales a palm reader would spin about the scores and tracks that etch her hard dry hands.

The service begins. Robin squeezes my hand, my sister twists mine. I want to pull away but I don’t. I look at her sideways and I can’t hear the rabbi. I want to say “I don’t like you” and I want to say “You are not my friend” and I want to say “I never will speak to you again” I want to say “You are a horrible broken person and you do not have a right to treat me the way you have our entire lives” and I want to scream “Get out of my sight, you are an ugly soulless bitch,” but I don’t.

I let my sister pinch my hand. She cries. I stare at the casket. I don’t.

The rabbi is leading us in The Lord’s Prayer, and I am surprised. I did not know this as a Jewish utterance; thought only Christians owned the rights to these words. I am embarrassed. I don’t know the verse, yet I hear my parents speak without hesitation. I want to yell at my mother, at my father, for hiding my heritage, for shaming me in front of grandpa.

He is before me now in a simple gold-colored pine box emblazoned with a Jewish star. I don’t know what to say, what to do, what to expect, how to be. I am at my first funeral, and I am lost.

The only thing I can do is feel and I feel. Angry. Hurt. Cheated. Bad. They raised me to be a Jew not Jewish and there is a difference and it is all before me, in this box where I am told my grandpa lies, naked, wrapped in a shroud, his tallis around his neck. I didn’t know he had one, and I wonder if it’s the same one he got after his bar mitzvah, and if he kept it, protected it, honored it, all his life, despite fleeing the Nazis, living in exile, finally coming to America. I wondered if this is the tallis that was packed in his suitcase during the long ocean voyage or did he buy a new one in his adopted country.

I thought about the tallis, a sacred prayer shawl Jewish men wear after they achieve manhood, tried to match this image of religious devotion with my grandpa, who denounced people and religion and God when I was part of his life, and I think of him now, lying naked in a box wrapped in a gauze shroud and his tallis. I look at him, suspended before me, and realize I know nothing.

The prayer ends, a moment of silence. I watch the coffin rock slowly back and forth, a cradle with my grandpa inside. There is no lullaby for this moment. It is a void. He is going into a void. He has entered the void; he is lost to me and I don’t know where he is but I do know I will never see him again. I cry a little bit, remember he was ready to die, that he was 90 years old and in poor health and he’d accepted what was and was ready for what wasn’t.

The winch turns; the cables creak. I stand on my toes, arch my neck, follow the progress of the coffin into the bottom of the hole. It slides through the opening, a slim gap on either side. My grandpa is inside this beautiful pine box; he fits in the coffin, the coffin fits in the hole. Soon the hole will be covered and a headstone will stand in front of it. This is not frightening or bad. It fits.

We form a line, my parents, my sister, me. We walk up to the edge of the hole, told to take a handful of dirt and shake it over the coffin. It’s our last chance to say something, see something, know something. My mother goes first. I can’t hear what she says but her face contorts, her mouth unhinges and she slides to her knees. My father grabs her, he is holding her up, and his grip on her looks painful.

He goes next: Lets go of my mother, turns, grabs a shovel. He looks mean around the mouth and his green eyes squint down behind glasses. His large hands grab the shovel, he digs, swings around, dumps. His face is blank, his mouth is still. “And stay there!” is what I see in the line of his shoulders, his arms, his hands. He sticks the shovel back in the mound, dusts off his palms and walks back to my mother. He takes her by the arm and they return to their chairs.

My sister steps forward and with a white shaking hand scoops up the brown and walks slowly along the edge, flicking her wrist as if she were a gardener planting grass seeds. I watch her lips move. I stare at the black lace cap crunched down over her thick short hair. Although I can see her clearly, she seems to fade against the bright green grass and the shadows under the canopy. She moves slowly; when I look for her again she has gone back to her chair.

Now I am looking at the pile of dirt. I can see that it is reddish-brown, not as dry as I’d thought. I stoop, place my hand on the rounded loaf, my palm rests briefly and I feel the cool chill that will cover my grandpa. I take a handful and stand, my wrist shaking, let fall a rain of red dirt. I walk slowly along the edge and look down.

Six feet doesn’t seem that far. The gold of the casket is sprinkled with dirt, but it still looks clean. I cannot see the Jewish star anymore. I look, and I see: The casket is inside the rectangular hole in the ground. The casket fits the hole. There is a little bit of room on each side and it fits. It still fits. It is fitting.

My grandpa is in the hole, in that casket. I believe he looks as he did in hospice: an old man sleeping. I don’t think about his face, his eyes, his nose, his mouth, covered in a gauzy wrapper. I step and I step and I sprinkle and I say “Good-bye grandpa, I hope I see you in a better life.” I don’t mean heaven. I mean another round on earth. I mean another chance for both of us.

by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved

Nothing but spoons

My new friend is getting a divorce.

After 20 years of marriage, Cheryl and Bryan are calling it quits. It’s not something she wants, but it’s happening anyway. He cheated on her, had a one-night stand with some girl in a bar. Cheryl was prepared to forgive and forget, but he asked her to move out instead.

In the end he got what he wanted: Cheryl filed for divorce, then went to New Zealand for her 40th birthday. She came back with stories about a few passion-filled nights spent in the Southern Hemisphere.

Before she left, she had to buy new silverware.

She invited me to see her apartment, a one bedroom unit with a loft overlooking a field in suburban Vancouver. It wouldn’t be long before a strip mall or another multi-unit condo complex obliterated the grassy plain, but that night it was a sweeping vista that rode the horizon.

I arrived at sunset, and we watched the sky purple like a bruise. A few shades of peach, a brief blast of orange and the sky settled into navy blue dusk.

Cheryl showed me around: The bathroom was huge, large enough for a family of four, with double sinks and a long countertop. A deep bathtub surrounded by a tropical-patterned shower curtain. No pink rose make-love-to-me-now aromas lingered in this new space of hers, instead the prickle-pucker tang of citrus made me think of hot sand and Margaritas.

The bedroom was large, with a walk-in closet. One row of bars hung empty; a naked hanger swinging by its hooked tooth made a whirring sound as it sawed back and forth.

“Pretty big closet,” I said.

She shrugged. “I don’t care much for clothes.” She tugged at her new sweater, frowning. Then her electric smile was back. “Things change,” she said brightly, and I nodded.

A Queen-sized bed, made up with layers of pillows and a quilt with a wedding ring design, dominated the room, singing out an empty invitation. She didn’t look at it, other than to tell me the bed was new.

We went upstairs to the loft, where I admired her Mac computer, the printer on a pull-out shelf, clear plastic storage bins that housed paper, pens and sticky notes. Conversation stuttered; a series of dead sparks. I struggled for words, lost in compassion. This was my new friend. This was her new apartment, the first real night of her new, unasked-for, life.

We had no shared history between us; at this moment less of a connection than the man she would eventually meet in New Zealand. We finally took to staring at each other, and the silence was like a pause of breath, that space between the deep in and the sighing out.

Finally: “You’ve got to see the kitchen.” We crunched down the stairs together, her shoulder brushing mine with every step.

The kitchen was painted white, a plain fluorescent bar hummed overhead. Cabinets were bleached oak, chrome door pulls. The floor was cream-colored vinyl, a four-square pattern marked with bland daisies. Bare windows overlooked scrub field, a small cactus perched on the sill.

Every cupboard door was opened, loosing a stream of anecdotal, half-rhetorical questions, words shaking down around us like salt, no time for answers before the next spray of words: “Do you like chipotles? I have this great recipe for mayonnaise, I’ll have to cook for you sometime…”

On her knees Cheryl showed me the pots and pans, some were new, others bore the rings of her marriage, like age lines on a tree stump.

“Bryan and I got this our first year together. I’ve always used it to cook rice. He was nice enough to let me take it….”

I closed my eyes, wondering at a man who would even argue over a cooking pot, and decided some things were fairly easy to give away. I caught Cheryl’s glance then, and looked at my feet. The silence echoed between us. It was this room, this apartment, this little life that had been planted and was still stuck in frozen soil.

A few more cupboards were opened and closed. The refrigerator handle was yanked and bare shelves glittered in the harsh light. A carton of eggs, some milk and yogurt crouched on the smooth plastic shelf. The commentary burbled on: No time for shopping but we’d have pasta and a basil-tomato sauce she’d made some time ago, wonderful stuff, did I like marinara?

Cheryl’s chatter rippled like piano keys, arpeggios of panic. She was still in shock, her sense of outrage lingering behind adamant statements: “Bryan is a good man,” she told me, rather than the stories of his lies and false promises, of his failed vows and her loss of forever.

Instead she showed me where the cumin and chili peppers were stored in the spice rack, how the pots inside the Lazy Susan nest inside each other, how she stacks lids in that corner of the cupboard over there. She demonstrated where the oven racks and cookie sheets go (in the drawer under the oven), where she’d keep the potholders, the drawer she’d set aside for aluminum foil and plastic wrap.

Her prattle was sharper now, we were running out of things to look at. My face felt cold, my cheeks ached from smiling, and I was grinding my teeth together. Cheryl’s tension was contagious, reminding me of my own heartache, a shared past that was rising out of my memory in waves. Not the eddies or ripples that I had learned to live with as I rebuilt my own life, but the rolling breakers, the waves of loss and pain and sorrow that hobbled me in my own early days of starting over.

I finally turned my back on her, reaching blindly for the one drawer we hadn’t yet examined. I yanked the handle, my fingers grasping the chrome pull in a biting grip. The drawer flew open, rolling smoothly on quiet rails.

A sharp rattle, and I looked down. It was the silverware drawer, utensils set inside horizontally, an arrangement I’d never seen before. One of the spoons was rocking against its neighbor. I stared down at that spoon, felt my heart squeeze. Time rolled backwards as that one little spoon, one of eight and yet one of one, tilted apart and then clinked against its mate, a tinny sound that froze my hand and loosened my memory.

The spoons weren’t alone in the drawer; there were forks and butter knives and a grapefruit knife, too. I saw her mini whisks in the skinny opening at the back of the tray. But it was the spoons I kept staring at: “Will you spoon me tonight?” a whispered echo from the past. I didn’t know the voice, was it his, was it mine? It didn’t matter, the lack of holding went on and on.

Oh, those spoons. Curved cups that hold, like two bodies folded in the night, cuddled against the dark. Tiny bowls that hold soup or medicine, instruments of love or healing. Cupped hands: water sluicing down a lover’s back; a spoon to wash the soul.

Empty spoons now. Teaspoons and tablespoons, free of rust spots, scratches and the telltale tooth marks of a trip down the garbage disposal.

“Shall we eat?”

I whirled around, my reverie broken. I slammed the drawer closed, but could still hear the spoons rattling.

She was back on her knees tugging a huge stainless steel pot from its warren under the counter. Water ran in the sink. It whirred against the sides, creating a roaring symphony that matched the one in my head.

I sat down at the table, edged a small menorah to the side. Then I looked at it more closely; the price tag announcing $6.95 from Cost Plus. “You going to light this?”

She shrugged. “If I remember. I just wanted one. I’ve never had one before…not as an adult anyway.”

It’s then I know that her ex wasn’t Jewish. I pause for a moment, wanting to hear my next words more clearly. Mine wasn’t either, I say. It’s my first reference to him, and I know it won’t be the last. My hands caress the menorah lightly, then ball into fists I bury in my lap.

Cheryl smiles at me, a shy flicker, recognizing a link she wasn’t expecting to find. She opens the freezer, pulls out a tub of blood-red sauce, pops it into the microwave. The water boils and she adds angel hair pasta.

“Would you like wine?” she asks, already busy with corkscrew and glasses. She fills two, and as she hands mine over, the monogrammed stemware twinkles. For a long moment we stare at the B and C, intertwined over a D. I can’t believe she took those glasses; clearly, she can’t either. Her hand trembles as she sets it down carefully, then pushes it away.

In the stiff silence that follows, I set the table. Plates and forks and water glasses. She has no napkins, so I use paper towels, folding the oversized sheets into bulky triangles. I leave the spoons in the drawer, hoping she doesn’t use them to mound pasta on her fork.

Dinner is served – a warm spicy blend of tomatoes and garlic and basil. She fills our plates, then picks up her fork, and smiles sweetly at me. “Oh, you forgot the spoons. Don’t you use a spoon to eat pasta?” I shake my head, smile back. She starts to rise, her left hand already reaching towards the silverware drawer. Then she pauses.

“Fuck it. We can eat with our fingers for all I give a damn.”

I stare at her. Then we laugh. I turn my fork on its side, cut the pasta into ropey strands.

by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved