A Date With Death
Got all dolled up. Hair done. Eyebrows plucked. No idea where going. Over the phone, he guaranteed it would be nothing like the movies.
Occupying the rocker, I contemplated the overhead parlour globe glisten on my new nails. Listened outside for the honk. This our first.
He’d always been around. We’d just never gone anywhere. He said we’d go for a spin, try not to talk about the office.
I smoothed my dress. Tightened hose. Dabbed at shoes. Read, reread, memorized the comics. Cinched belt. Picked lint. Unraveled in the crossword the last few impossible clues. Endured the blues of fingers drumming whatever daydreams under the skin.
Till on the wall above, the cuckoo Dad brought back from Iceland–ten years before his arteries clogged–squawked midnight.
A tear welled. Trickled across the cheek.
I smiled slightly–to channel the drop onto the tip of my barely extended tongue. Licked the lifeless liquid in. Mixed it with spit.
Stood up, again.
I swallowed. Plucked pins from hair. Stood. Pressed to my chest an intangible corsage. Drifted upstairs–once again to love myself to sleep.