Vignettes
a work of flash fiction about a relationship because it's february. love and loss are in the air.
Hudson
The place she has rented for us is quaint, and comfortable, and we make a mess of it. Socks strewn across the living room floor, popcorn wedged between the couch cushions, drinking glasses with merlot sediment in the bottom on the nightstand. Making frequent trips—like this one, down to the patio outside to smoke, so we won't later have to pay a fee; scattering the grounds with ash. Her hair is matted from the day, and she pulls a bandana out from her pocket, ties it on quickly, not needing to see.
"You look like a line cook" I say.
"And you like it."
I do. I go to kiss her, and she allows it.
"Let's go back in, I have something for you." she says, stubbing out the joint.
She has me sit on the couch with my eyes closed. I hear her rustling around in the kitchen, the clang of the forks giving her away—then out she comes, singing. Loudly and off key. My eyes flash open and immediately begin to sting. She places a cake on the coffee table in front of me. I sob into it, spurting out snot and saltwater onto the thing we're meant to eat. I blow out the purple squiggly candles and request a Ziploc bag in which to store them away.
"You're such a mush." She says.
Headrest
The hardwood is threaded with grime; the walls possess a tacky damp quality; the floor is unlevel, thus the furniture rocks. And it only costs us just shy of two thousand dollars a month. The street noise never ends. The smell of car exhaust wafts through the cracked window. I convince myself to like it, the complimentary white noise and aromatherapy. The cat shits where we do; she scratches my legs and bites my toes as they peek out at the foot of our short bed—and together we are a family. Adena decides when we go to bed, when we eat dinner, what we eat for dinner, and what we watch after. My suggestions only penetrate her mind if I properly doll them up, pale aquatic eyeshadow and crimson lips in a trench coat, disguising them as her own. Restless and unable to sleep as I was not prepared, I set up shop to stare at her, examine the pillar around which I have chosen to mold my life. I enjoy this time together. It is when I feel she is the most at ease, and we are the most equal.
I lay on her chest off to the side, stage left, leaving ample room to trace over her skin. My fingertips surf down until I reach the divet of her navel. I want to jam my thumb into it like an orange and peel her back from there, but she brushes my hand away like I am an itch—and I am small again.
Cramped
The three of us spent the night walking around at a glacial pace as I shuffled in my new shoes that hurt, weighed down by my hefty wool coat and bouquet of flowers from Adena. After my performance we went to the place on the corner with wood fired pizza and to the water and to an unlicensed smoke shop. It would have been a perfect date night.
The ride home is laboring and tight. Two is company, etc. etc. I wanted E to leave. I told Adena so. Not in those words exactly, but the words “I want to reconnect tonight" seemed straightforward enough in my apparently simple mind. Adena is sitting smug in the middle, pleased to be squished between two bodies she’d come to know well.
“E’s body looks just like mine—it’s kind of wild.” she whispers to me despite my best efforts to create division between what I need to know, and what she wants me to know.
“Wow, that’s something.” I reply, swallowing my tongue laden with grief.
Mirror
“Stop looking at me like that. You’re looking at me like I’m some kind of pervert.” she snaps from across the dining room table, its legs trembling under the weight of her demand.
“I’m not looking at you like you’re a pervert. I’m looking at you like you’re someone who wants too much.”
Bag
“I don’t want more stuff in my space.”
“Got it.”
“Got what?”
Her authoritative declaration prompts me to jump off the bed. I swiftly reach under it as I stabilize on my feet, sliding out the plastic container my things had been relegated to; furiously shoving as much as I can into my messenger bag: 4 pairs of holey underwear my mother keeps telling me to throw out whenever I mention them—swearing I'll wish I had when I end up in the emergency room and a male doctor needs to cut them off for surgery; my signed and personalized copy of Hunger by Roxane Gay; a pocket King James version of the bible from my grandma; my lucky tarot deck that only predicts bad things—like the death of Betty White and the election of [redacted]; our shared harness that I paid for and carried all the way home due the internalized shame she swore she didn't have; my mostly empty sketchbook from the week I decided capturing still life was my passion; my secret pack of Virginia Slims I'd kept hidden inside a dugout copy of Infinite Jest that had become less and less full the more we fought and gave me a nasty little cough that embarrassed me in team meetings at the office; a singular Godiva chocolate bar with almonds—which I could never eat because Adena is allergic.