FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
I loved Rena as much as a patient could love their gynecologist. We had tea together in her office. I cried when she asked how I was doing, and she showed me pictures of her terriers.
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
Sitting at the bar on Pacific Avenue. With the seashells in the walls. Same bartender from last year, still here, making the same lethal Mai Tais.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
It all started with the curse of my tits. Women’s bodies are cursed. Everyone tries to look at them, everyone tries to ignore them.
On the first day of our new life together, my husband realized that I was not interested in theoretical debate. He said it was okay by him and went out to get some pancake mix.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
The young boy goes to bed and kisses his mother goodnight. He goes to bed and closes his eyes and wishes his family good sleep.
Another image rises to us both: A man hunched before a TV, watching historical documentaries, correcting incorrect facts. Rasputin was not a priest, damn it.
To be encased, Clint had always thought, was foolishness. Why allow yourself to be open to such sorrow?
Share some abandon.
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