Update 16 Nov 2022: I am excited to announce I was notified today that Put Down The Bottle is selected for publication in the 43rd annual issue of the University of Iowa's oldest undergraduate literary magazine, earthwords, coming spring 2023 (site).
This morning, there is only Madeleine. And it irritates her.
The sofa scratches at her bare back, with just the strap of her sports bra protecting a narrow band of her vulnerability. The Victorian floral fabric is more weft than warp. It was always on the to-do list for reupholstering after rescuing it from the dumpster behind a theatre. However, not unlike many things in Madeleine’s life, that task kept shifting last. The sofa is curved to entice conversation between two people but when Zara and Madeleine were together, they mostly used it for napping because it cradled them as if it were the big spoon to their little spoon. Even when both of them lay together.
Her tongue drowsily dislodges from her palate, coated with a slimy dryness as if she had eaten a jar of kindergartner’s white paste in her sleep. Her jaws are pried open to let loose the yawn wanting to burst through her chest and, in doing so, throbbing waves pound down both sides of her head. Oh, for god’s sake, I must have been grinding my teeth all night!
Having already descended through the hours of the early morning, the sun joins the mutiny against her senses by blasting past the open curtains lighting her face as if on fire. It inflames not only her skin but everything she feels inside, as well. It’s always supposed to rain in Seattle in the fall, isn’t it? Hoy no. Nada para Madeleine.
Outside of her window, a dozen feet or so below, the cavalry arrives to deal the final blow. Morning commuters from sleepy bedroom suburban (and exurban) communities command their Jeeps, Escalades, and Hummers, clogging the veins that feed the downtown skyscrapers. Their catalytic cacophony adds to the horns and bells and sirens of the busses, cabbies, police, fire engines in what has become a repeating Monday morning reveille. Along with the congested wake-up call, the stench of the exhaust mixed with coffee beans roasting on every corner wrings her stomach to remove every last drop.
“Why did we rent an apartment in the city?” she moans, seeking silent solace between her forearms as she braces both sides of her face.
Of course she knows why, because moving to the city meant that she would never worry about driving to work. She could always take the bus or, if the weather was nice, ride a bike. Now she’ll need to make sure she gets herself up on time every day to catch the bus. Just to afford the rent.
“Mierda.”
Last night’s companion is still next to her, cradled in her arms. If she is the little spoon, then the bottle of Kendall-Jackson is her demitasse. The cold glass suckled the heat from her body while nestled against her small breasts, almost nonexistent under her bra. That’s ok, I never considered mis tetas pequeñas as my best feature. I always seem to get ’em when I’m going, not when I’m coming.
Raising the bottle in her right hand, she swishes it to see if there is any of last night’s love remaining for a morning quickie. Listening for signs of life and hearing none, she clumsily lays it to rest on the floor and follows tumbling after.
She can’t figure which hurts more, her pride or her hip after she collides into Kendall-Jackson’s hard length. On the hardwood floor, the sun burns even brighter into her hazel eyes.
“¡Mierda! Shit, shit, shit.”
She sits up and grabs the bottle by the neck, raising it high over her head, ready to shatter the sun into a million pieces of rain. Arm cocked, anger peaked, just as she is about to pull the trigger, put down the bottle, Madeleine pulses through her head.
Strength saps from her fingers, the bottle bounces on the sofa cushion behind her head. Burying her face into her red, scraped knees, Madeleine wraps her short arms around her calves. Did the tears ever stop last night? Her black hair envelopes her cheeks, wicking the wetness away from her lap, down the sides of her thighs. Put down the bottle, Madeleine.
Her thoughts continue to echo, reverberating their tempo more quickly and with greater forte until memories of three years past stagger forth from the damp cellar at the back of her mind. Three years ago was a good vintage for those five words, the sweetness of a promise of new love first savored have long since turned sour. She shuts her eyes to keep from tasting the new day, wishing to carouse to fortune’s past and recapture that moment, that taste, that high.
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