two
tiny bottles of whiskey and dump them into my drink. I swish, swish,
swish the concoction around with my red straw and take a deep drink and don't
stop until I get that warm feeling, that feeling where my limbs melt and I'm
more a part of the car than I am myself. Sometimes I make the mistake of
looking in the rearview mirror and watch my eyes blink, an
intense blue that Mitch used to say were "clear as the
ocean." And I look deep into them, but I don't really see
anything. I glance at Wren's empty booster seat, and then I try not to
feel anything.
I
coast down and park at the mall that is stupidly busy for a weekday.
Welfare checks being burned, teenagers skipping school, harried mothers with
screaming balls of snot in strollers. It's a mess inside, but it's a fun
mess when you're buzzed.
I'm
already halfway through my drink when I think about getting something to eat,
but then I see Bath and Body Works and Ms. Snarly Nose, so I decide to park
myself on the bench just outside of the store. There's an older woman in
a track suit tending to her knitting and a guy standing near her peripheral in
white sneakers and white high socks barking into his cell phone. I can't
tell if he's angry or laughing.
I
watch Ms. Snarly Nose for a second and try to picture her life: Single, lives
in a one bedroom, possibly a two-bedroom with a roommate. Goes into
Little Rock on the weekends and wears cute little outfits, dances with cute
men. She thinks she's better than me.
The
clouds open and a miracle practically strikes me
down. It's quitting time for Ms. Snarly Nose, and instead of navigating
the web of back hallways connecting all the stores in the mall, she exits out
the front of Bath and Body Works, and I decide to follow her trail. She
has a red lunchbox strapped onto her shoulder, and a bag from Dillard's in her
hand. She's wearing cute leather sandals, a sundress that shows off her
bare arms. Her hair is blonde, an obnoxious shade. I have dark
hair. Can't lighten it.
I
take another crucial swallow of whiskey /Dr.Pepper
and the burn propels my feet. I bump into a pig -faced teenager who's
moping behind her prettier friends, and she apologizes like it's her fault.
"Watch
it, Fatty," I say and her friends start to giggle. I feel horrible,
the hole in my heart widening, but I'm not really talking to the girl.
I'm talking to Ms. Snarly Nose who's click-clacking in her beautifully heeled
sandals.
She
goes to the Clinique counter to make a return. She has a bottle of
perfume, "Happy," that she upgrades for the larger size. And
that really grinds my gears, like she's waving it in my face: "I don't
even have to wear the stupid body splash that you wear, Elena. I wear
real perfume like a fucking adult."
"Can
I help you?" I turn and a woman with slick red lips and bottled
brown hair squirts at my eyes.
"Passionate,"
she says and takes an exaggerated whiff.
"I'm
sure," I say and turn on my heels because Ms. Snarly Nose has already
taken her newer, bigger bottle of perfume and is skirting around the purses to
the exit. I follow behind, not too close, and when she stops to tug at
the heel of her shoe, I start to finger a turquoise smock with flowers chasing
each other around the neckline. It looks like something Jimmy's colorblind
wife would wear.
Out
in the parking lot the sun is unforgiving. and I go
rooting around my bag for the pair of sunglasses I picked up from Wal-Mart but
told Ronnie I got from Target. There's a long scratch in the middle of
the right lens so it looks like Ms. Snarly nose is cut in half, a magician's
trick. She's standing at the curb outside of the Dillard's, and I pretend
to be waiting for my ride, too, letting the last droplets of Dr. Pepper and
whiskey cool my tongue.
"Why
are you following me?" I glance over, praying that I heard her
wrong, but she's facing me now, beautifully slim in her red dress with white
flower heads the size of my fist. And
tiny bottles of whiskey and dump them into my drink. I swish, swish,
swish the concoction around with my red straw and take a deep drink and don't
stop until I get that warm feeling, that feeling where my limbs melt and I'm
more a part of the car than I am myself. Sometimes I make the mistake of
looking in the rearview mirror and watch my eyes blink, an
intense blue that Mitch used to say were "clear as the
ocean." And I look deep into them, but I don't really see
anything. I glance at Wren's empty booster seat, and then I try not to
feel anything.
I
coast down and park at the mall that is stupidly busy for a weekday.
Welfare checks being burned, teenagers skipping school, harried mothers with
screaming balls of snot in strollers. It's a mess inside, but it's a fun
mess when you're buzzed.
I'm
already halfway through my drink when I think about getting something to eat,
but then I see Bath and Body Works and Ms. Snarly Nose, so I decide to park
myself on the bench just outside of the store. There's an older woman in
a track suit tending to her knitting and a guy standing near her peripheral in
white sneakers and white high socks barking into his cell phone. I can't
tell if he's angry or laughing.
I
watch Ms. Snarly Nose for a second and try to picture her life: Single, lives
in a one bedroom, possibly a two-bedroom with a roommate. Goes into
Little Rock on the weekends and wears cute little outfits, dances with cute
men. She thinks she's better than me.
The
clouds open and a miracle practically strikes me
down. It's quitting time for Ms. Snarly Nose, and instead of navigating
the web of back hallways connecting all the stores in the mall, she exits out
the front of Bath and Body Works, and I decide to follow her trail. She
has a red lunchbox strapped onto her shoulder, and a bag from Dillard's in her
hand. She's wearing cute leather sandals, a sundress that shows off her
bare arms. Her hair is blonde, an obnoxious shade. I have dark
hair. Can't lighten it.
I
take another crucial swallow of whiskey /Dr.Pepper
and the burn propels my feet. I bump into a pig -faced teenager who's
moping behind her prettier friends, and she apologizes like it's her fault.
"Watch
it, Fatty," I say and her friends start to giggle. I feel horrible,
the hole in my heart widening, but I'm not really talking to the girl.
I'm talking to Ms. Snarly Nose who's click-clacking in her beautifully heeled
sandals.
She
goes to the Clinique counter to make a return. She has a bottle of
perfume, "Happy," that she upgrades for the larger size. And
that really grinds my gears, like she's waving it in my face: "I don't
even have to wear the stupid body splash that you wear, Elena. I wear
real perfume like a fucking adult."
"Can
I help you?" I turn and a woman with slick red lips and bottled
brown hair squirts at my eyes.
"Passionate,"
she says and takes an exaggerated whiff.
"I'm
sure," I say and turn on my heels because Ms. Snarly Nose has already
taken her newer, bigger bottle of perfume and is skirting around the purses to
the exit. I follow behind, not too close, and when she stops to tug at
the heel of her shoe, I start to finger a turquoise smock with flowers chasing
each other around the neckline. It looks like something Jimmy's colorblind
wife would wear.
Out
in the parking lot the sun is unforgiving. and I go
rooting around my bag for the pair of sunglasses I picked up from Wal-Mart but
told Ronnie I got from Target. There's a long scratch in the middle of
the right lens so it looks like Ms. Snarly nose is cut in half, a magician's
trick. She's standing at the curb outside of the Dillard's, and I pretend
to be waiting for my ride, too, letting the last droplets of Dr. Pepper and
whiskey cool my tongue.
"Why
are you following me?" I glance over, praying that I heard her
wrong, but she's facing me now, beautifully slim in her red dress with white
flower heads the size of my fist. And
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