Sometimes, they say
that knowing the signs is half the battle. But maybe they're wrong. Maybe knowing the signs is half the comfort. Like when the bottom's falling out, or when the empty stares yank at your mental sleeves. Yanking and pulling and tugging even while you're running. They don't stop until the fabric rubs your motivation away. Maybe knowing the signs is half the comfort, then.
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Leftovers of breakfast on the table. Crumbs of toast and liquid chicken silent in their reprieve live for the moment to see wrinkled scraps of trees scattered about the planks, the stained remnants of a life of ease. The crumbs, they listen. From below, a murmured scream, in the basement. Television blares: Santa is nowhere! The crumbs, the crumbs know and they lament when their maker scrapes them down the Lau nd ry ch u t e . He shattered her
with proximity and words never spoken. He pummelled her very essence with foggy glances, undetected. Fences needed mending, or dismantling, and neither he nor she could choose. So the panels just stood- crooked, dishevelled and weeping. All withered,
she rang the bell clanged the bell at would-be shoppers. Her puffy red coat flapped about her frantic arms as she hollered with a smile. "Oh merry great day, and may God bless you for your change!" Then she danced all crooked like, sneakers and wrinkled pantyhose pattering about like a hollow clown on ecstasy. All withered, she rang her bell and twirled silver-streaked curls with frail fingers that chimed of younger days. "God bless you for your change!" She hated the way he looked at her. Sometimes he seared through her as though he had something to prove, but he was too pussy-willowed in his boots to move her.
Other times she'd catch him trying hard not to look, like a little kid whose parents warned of bitey snakes in the cookie jar; petrified and hungry at the same time. She hated his non-looks, too. But it was the times when he'd look at her with his eyes half-cocked, loaded with silent questions that screamed impenetrable shades of sadness that really pissed her off. If he had something to say, and she knew he did because his peepers couldn't hide shit, she just wanted him to put on his big girl panties and say it. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |