Routine
Every day starts with silence. She wakes to the weight of it, carefully picks her way through the morning, fearing feeling like shattered glass. Hungry? Naw. Here, have some eggs. Click and the can's open, out come the twins thunder and lightning. Pass the ketchup, pass the can. I'll have some of that, she decides, and feels the soothing snake slide down her throat too. She pours cereal, snap-crackle-pop go her nerves.
She watches him stab his plate, hears the fork clink on china and dink on teeth, why does he eat so fuckin loud, with that dribble of spit at the edge of his lip, that nosehair wild and damp, I'd like to reach over and pluck that fucker out. But she sees past the grime the smell the waste as she always does, pulls long and slow on her Camel and falls back into the past, when they drank beer for breakfast because they were coming off an all-night high of skin and sweat and the Rolling fucking Stones. If she looks past the grey of today she can recall olive arms and chocolate eyes and a smile that made her weep with joy. She could live there forever, in that smokey memory, but a small voice brings her back and she gets up to put the toddler on the toilet.
Leaning on the kitchen sink, she hears the remote hit the wall, and she's fully awake now. He's steel edge and nothing soft anymore, slams the fridge door, mutters something doesn't matter what content is of no importance the room is all mood now, electricity and sweat and the smell of anger on his breath as he leans in close. She tenses, but only a little, backs against the wall. Just before contact, she steadies her hand on the side of the sink and tilts her head sideways slightly, moving reflexively with the rush of air, and in that moment her hair falls over her left nostril and she smells Suave Strawberry. Then she closes her eyes and lingers in this last flash of silence. Hold your breath, hold on. She knows what's coming.
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Author's Note
In the spirit of mushy mother's day stuff...
I wrote this a while back; the goal was to try to capture a moment, so it started with the idea in the last paragraph but then I worked backward.
Other stories by Michelle Elvy
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this is quite amazing. The unexpected details keep popping out like snakes, pulling the reader in. I love that she smells anger on his breath, and the Suave Strawberry over her left nostril is a killer. Wow.
Time to get out the .38, the one with no serial number. Ouch! Very strong, Michelle.
Time to get out the scissors, too. Nose hair drives me crazy.
Very good, Michelle. To go on from what Meg says about these unexpected details, they would be a hoot in a comedy, but are foreboding in this tragedy. Thanks for providing a bit on the making of it, the back-tracking you did is ideal.
The details define this piece. So much to like -- the Suave strawberry, the smoky memory, olive arms and chocolate eyes, steel edge... and so on. The use of commas -- and non-use -- was very effective. I really appreciate you telling how you came to write this amazing story. Peace...
Thanks very much to all of you. I appreciate you appreciating the details. Peace, indeed, Linda. Thanks.
And Matthew, I like the comic relief! And Walt, if anyone could turn this into a farce, you could. Or maybe I'll try; I always like a challenge.
I see two endings here, both wonderful (first one after toilet) both took my breath away. It's what is not being said here that makes this piece so strong. Our imaginations do the rest. Loved it Michelle. Fav of course.
Harsh, this is. Not your typical Hallmark moment. Arresting.
Thanks, Myra and James. I know exactly what you mean about those two possible endings, Myra. And I guess harsh is good, in this case...
This is very powerful. Wrenching actually. I love that her recollections of how it was between them (when younger and connected) is sandwiched right in the paragraph where the reader knows exactly how she's viewing him now eating and the pull to the toddler and the toilet. The last paragraph is fraught with the potential of unrestrained violence, and I see it all taking place in such small quarters. The detail that she smells her own Suave Strawberry-scented hair (a touchstone to who she once was?) just before whatever might erupt, erupts... It's visual, visceral. Terrific.
Horrifying, and told really well. I like the staccato inner-narrative, so true to how the brain works especially when under her type of pressure
This is truly powerful - so well done.
This is quite powerful. You’ve done a lot here in so few words.
Thank you Cherise, Susan, Marcelle, Christian! I am pleased by your response. Interesting you noticed the small quarters, Cherise -- I wanted the space to be small but the potential to be explosive. And thanks for commenting on the staccato inner-narrative, Susan.
All of your comments are very much appreciated!
Excellent story! Packs a punch Fav.
"nosehair wild and damp"! Wonderful!
(Fix the typo please: lightning instead of lightening)
thanks so much for the fav, Bill!
and thanks also for that typo note! yikes!
Dear Michelle, this is so good! Ditto on what's already been posted.
Pass the ketchup, pass the can. I'll have some of that
Thank you so much, Michael!
An excellent portrayal of far too many lives, packed into a few paragraphs. I want to get in there and help her out of her domestic prison and the violence hinted at - that's how real it reads. Very good! Fave.
Beaten, braced, but all of her senses alive and hers, as she takes in the details of the morning, the kitchen, the smell of her own hair. The third last line is devastating. Strong work, Michelle. And thank you for reading mine.
Stunning.