At Ease

Everyone surrendered to the shampoo girl. It was universal she learned. They followed her down the narrow hall, back to the lonely sink room away from the bustling shop. Caped up, they lean back in the chair, tilt their heads exposing their necks, and close their eyes. She feels them unwind and surrender as she scrubs and massages. They’re lulled by her touch, the creamy, coconut scent and the warm water. Here, they didn’t think about their vulnerability. But she did.

A Delicious Win

My fiancé proposed a Chopped-style cooking challenge: transform mystery ingredients into a meal. “You’re on! You select the basket,” I said. Quick engagement, busy careers, we hadn’t learned about each other’s culinary skills. Now was my chance. 

Ben picked sausage, potatoes, canned pumpkin, pickle juice and rhubarb. 

His dish artfully arranged, tasted gourmet. Mine, mushy and oversalted.  

“You win Ben! Though mine tasted a lot better than usual.”    

“Really?” He tried another forkful and frowned.  

“Yep.”   

I raised my glass, “To you. The cook of the family.” 

He didn’t know it yet. He’d won the battle. But I’d won the war. 

I Will Change Your Life

Dawn’s life coach urged her, “You must make big changes to live your dreams, improve your career, and find true love. Otherwise, it’s impossible.” Paying $125/hour and burning through her small savings, Dawn agreed.  

By their next appointment, Dawn had ditched her boyfriend, splurged on a trendy wardrobe, lopped off her long hair, and written her job resignation.  

Hyper hair-aware, she scrutinized an old photo of her coach.  

“You’ve never changed your hair?” Dawn asked. 

“Nope.” 

“Changed careers?” 

“Never.” 

“Found love? 

“No. I’m risk averse.” 

Dawn felt for her phantom hair and shuddered; grateful she still had her job.

Caught Under the Harvest Moon

Hustling through the woods, Jeb and I stumble upon the coven. We stop. Through a gap in their circle, I spot something squirming on their altar. Damn! The tall, robed woman at the center approaches us and takes a long look. The High Priestess maybe? I’d heard stories in town. Thought they were just stories. My heart races faster than I can remember. Jeb mutters we should run. Finally, the woman nods. I nod back. We’re in agreement. They go back to their business at the altar, and we take off with our shovels and weighty wheelbarrow. 

Grandpa’s Birthday Card

Owen put down the paintbrush. “I’m done! Come see!” he yelled to his mother. 
 
“That’s not how to write your name.” 
 
The 5-year-old signed his name with the “O” and “W” on one line, the “E” and “N” directly beneath. 
 
“What’s this supposed to be?” 
 
“Mom. It’s an EF3 tornado. See all the debris flying. That’s a sea turtle. And Grandpa’s chair.” 
 
She took the painting. Replaced it with a clean sheet of paper. 
 
“Come on Owen. Paint something nice for Grandpa.” 
 
“I don’t want to. I want to watch TV.” 
 
“Paint something nice. Then you can watch TV.” 

Dinnertime Call From Prison

Our daughters say goodbye and hand me the phone. I take it to the bedroom. 
 
“Stay true,” you plead. 
 
“I told you. It’s over. I can’t live like this.” 
 
“We promised each other. For better. Or worse.” 
 
“You’ve made our lives worse than worse.” 
 
“I did it for us.” 
 
I hang up. Exhausted. Claire and Michelle burst in. They’re hungry. Disheveled. 
 
I rally to make dinner. Help with homework. 
 
After the divorce, I’ll keep taking the girls for prison visits, for as long as they want. Although I’ll resent it. 
 
I’ll do it for them. Not their mother.

Extravagances

Katrin ended the visit scolding her about irresponsible spending. Marla half listened to her daughter while admiring her frivolous purchase. Couldn’t disagree. Resources dwindled and the large house needed a roof. But it made her happy. “You’re right,” Marla conceded. Appeased, Katrin smiled, kissed her mother and said, “No more.” 
 
At the living room window, Marla watched Katrin drive away. She smoothed the silky drapes. Maybe someday her daughter would understand. Maybe when watching TV or eating alone became pleasureless or when there was nobody to call. One day she might understand custom drapes with laughing llamas were worth it. 

Stranger Danger

They spotted me as I rounded the muddy trail. He poked undergrowth with a long stick. She held a knife. I hiked towards them.  

“Rains were good for mushrooms,” the old man said to me. Their basket overflowed. The woman scraped away dirt and gills. 

“Lots of large, white ones back there.” I pointed. 

“Saw ‘em. Poisonous.” 

“Really?  

“Enough could kill you.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Doing this my whole life son.” 

“Even cooked?” 

“Yep.” 

I thanked the man. 

But for him, I’d not be able to kill two birds with one stone tonight: make dinner and … 

Know Your Audience

“I’m going savage on Mrs. Whittaker.” 

“Big Yikes! Teach went salty on your paper?” 

“Said I didn’t follow instructions.” 

“What’d you do?” 

“Used a lot of words she doesn’t know.” 

“She said no slang, right?” 

“Yassss. She’s so cheugy. Only understands wack, dead writers.”  

“She’s not throwing shade.” 

“Probably not. I put my paper online.” 

“And?” 

“A thousand peeps think it’s fire.” 

“You’re so thirsty, no cap.” 

“Going to show Whittaker my squad thinks my writing slaps.” 

“Bruh! Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

“What’s that?” 

“Your squad’s not grading you.” 

“Damn, Gina. You’re smart AF.” 

Pests

One got in. Just one. Maybe two. Her bad. Frances was lured and she lapsed. Allowed it. Should have eradicated them immediately. Because over time, the little buggers told friends who told friends. And so on. The malapert devils wormed their way in. Swarmed her. Pestered her. Every day. Soon she had a full-on infestation. When Frances is overwhelmed, she ignores the situation. Again, her bad. Since pests never withdraw, she had no choice. She had to exterminate. It was time to battle. Tonight. She armed herself with large glass of wine, opened her email, and started unsubscribing.