Tuesday [8]: She ate a light brunch of expired aspirations which smelled oddly of vodka cranberry extract, replacing her vitamins with tiny dead-winged birds. Her hope was molding all over the marble rye and pastrami in the refrigerator. No sign of him yet at either the bar or the grist mill.
Wednesday [9]: Her eyes tore through pamphlets on pasteurized milk byproducts, stabbing through the halcyon glow of a world lost inside the setting sun. Her envy fueled a convoy of well-stocked tanker trucks bustling towards the moon.
Thursday [10]: Folding bright t-shirts printed with obscene slogans, insights into a profane universe filled with sacred incense, she is overcome with the noxious ink vapors, falling prey to a death dream about a neon chameleon. The sky watches her wake up with deep thunderstorm breaths. She shoots outlandish in the face.
Friday [11]: Tiny moments get trapped, typed into fortune cookie banners streaming across a weary sky behind toy airplanes. Sick of crying every time she glances at the cookie in its wrapper—cockeyed and angry about the raw meat she willfully ingests—she consumes it. The wheel turns slowly, spinning through with its master plan, pushing affection like cheese steak sandwiches through her digestive tract. Now is merely another side effect of transgressive pain.
Saturday [12]: An uncommon name lights up within her, an icy halo thundering across her breastbone, a throbbing non sequitur from a typically numb universe, pulling a hazy forest into tight focus, a face bleeding through a lifetime of foggy remnants. Not unattractive, she thinks, rolling over and going back to sleep, hoping his face will still be there in the morning. She hates the fact that she doesn’t believe in destiny, because destiny is always blinding her with television anchor teeth.
Sunday [13]: Anonymous is a long breath, a cold gust from a world fond of typewritten placards stapled to foreheads and furrowed brows. She doesn’t mind the sting of such impending martyrdom especially now that the yolk is also draped over a strapping young man whose sexuality can drive the angst from her body and mind. Regret is her nickname and while she bears it well alone, she doesn’t mind another forgotten name to sigh off her balcony into the smog.
It’s Always Raining Somewhere
Light from the blinds cuts me to ribbons. It’s hot outside again. I’m 72 degrees in Seattle and not really easy to find work these days. I was a pharmacist, I think. At least in a prior life, the life before hot and muggy in St Louis today took over everything. I can’t help myself. I’m fixated on those deep blue screens. My wife was an anchor. My mother was a meteorologist. My father was a Travel Advisory for Cleveland and Columbus, so he wasn’t around much.When I was still with Maria, with eyes were so rich and brown you could brew espresso with them, she told me I needed to pay attention to the world around me. I’m not saying it was 101 in Tucson, but I did start watching the news more often at her suggestion. It was good for me to keep informed.
After work, I’d come home and snuggle up with her on the couch. We’d watch the evening news and Severe Thunderstorm Watch for Brauer County until eight p.m. when we got hungry. God I could cook. She wasn’t too bad either. Her mother had been a gourmand. I’d just picked up a few pointers from my old Fraternity brother at Now, Weather on the Eights.
This afternoon, the living room heats up with a fury. Feels like twenty suns are in my house. I miss the drapes. My cat-scratched couch is about to smolder. Once, I sold the La-Z-Boy my parents gave me after graduation for food. Later, I sold my computer to pay the cable bill. Now there’s only this shitty couch and a milk crate. There isn’t any Cloudy and 78 in Philadelphia to pay the bills. After paying the rent, there wasn’t even enough money to feed Samuel Clemens, who’s batting at my shin to get my attention. After several days, he isn’t even high ragweed and tree pollen counts. He just stares at my toes like he wants to eat them.
Today is the final notice, like when she biggest tornado outbreak on record in May. Didn’t even leave a note. I tried to be attentive. When she switched perfumes, I complimented her on its nice bouquet. When she lost or gained weight, I always told her she was perfect. I couldn’t help needing to stay informed. It was the only way I could feel strong winds ahead of a low pressure system of my life.
After the cable goes out, the world will cease to be at my fingertips. Polar ice caps will melt and I’ll have no idea why or where. A hurricane could wipe out my wife’s house, and I couldn’t warn her. Not that she’d even pick up the phone anymore. God, it could be raining somewhere and I wouldn’t have an umbrella. How can you barometric pressure of 23 and rising like that? Somehow, I doubt the shelter has cable. Maybe I could request it. It could be raining somewhere, and I wouldn’t have an umbrella.
Andy L. Kubai lives inside the associative properties of nostalgic songs and thrives due to the creative space inside his fiancée, Kim's heart. A BA in Creative Writing from St. Edward’s University proves he can occasionally finish things. His work has seen daylight in The Circle Review, Sorin Oak Review, Black Heart Magazine, and Boston Poetry Magazine, amongst others. Andy's website: andylkubai.wordpress.com. Excerpt from his publication-seeking book of short stories: The Colossus of Rhodesville.
