![]() She is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a nominee for Best Microfiction 2022. Mikki Aronoff’s work appears or is forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Intima, Thimble Literary Magazine, London Reader, SurVision, Rogue Agent, Popshot Quarterly, The South Shore Review, The Fortnightly Review, Feral, Sledgehammer Lit, Flash Boulevard, The Phare, and elsewhere. Back in my La-Z-Boy, I switch on the TV, surf the Hallmark channels, find a prince. I race to relieve myself, put on my sweats and drive home rewinding the loops. Breathe! My lungs swell to her decrescendo-ed command as the machine spits me out. Hold IT! I spin and twist till my tail points up. ![]() I swim over, hear his sad tale, splash and undulate with longing. A consort, awaiting rescue, crooks a finger that beckons promise. Breathe! I float and weave among kelp and urchins, drift into a grotto. Then a crescendo: Hold IT! My bottom half scales and glistens, flips and swishes, then stills. I need to pee badly, but gulp air instead. She dashes to a protective booth to snap images and tell me what to do. The techie leaves me and my bloat to slosh and squirm in a sea cave of metal. I point to a pin on my daypack, a bunch of waves and a whale, grumble about all the plastic water bottles I’ve drained for this test. I’ve driven an hour in traffic to get here, and I’m feeling cranky. Work with this! she nags, with a not-too-kind tap on my noggin. She’s hovering over my absent attention, interrupts a blue movie starting to loop, something about a prince with a six-pack. I shuffle off all modesty and my mortal sweat pants, leave them rumpled on the cubicle floor as the technician rushes me towards the machine. ~ after The Sea Maidens, by Evelyn de Morgan, 1886 Madge scoops up a handful of stuffed grape leaves, throws her head back, tosses them into her mouth like popcorn. “She’s why I left.” We go back to the kitchen. ![]() She jerks her head in the flamingo’s direction. He’s not going to move for a while, and Madge needs the key. We tiptoe in, consider Harv and his bird on the couch. Madge grabs my hand again, leads me towards the living room. Madge takes a Michelob from the fridge, raises the bottle to me. I finish wrapping and rolling, shove the dolmades in the microwave. A bit of drool snakes down his chin, his arms are wrapped tight around the flamingo. “I need it for the office party.” She grabs my hand, leads the way to the kitchen with only a quick glance at her ex snoring on the sofa. “Left my ugly Christmas sweater at Harv’s,” she explains, pushing her way through. Has she come back to reconcile? I can’t stand in the way of that, so I open the door again. “I know you’re in there, Harv!” It’s Madge. Ten minutes later, someone’s pounding on the door. I drag him and his bird in, pat the couch, toss him a blanket, return to the kitchen. He won’t be able to make it back across the snow. He’s leaning a bit too much and hugging his lawn flamingo. Harvey’s not a bad sort, if you remove the booze, so I crack open the door. Madge split last Christmas, and our houses don’t even look alike. “Madge! Madge! Open the goddamn door!” Harvey, my neighbor, is drunk. And a voice to go with it, familiar but raspy. Each time, I have to remind myself: Like an envelope. No, I decide, go back to stuffing minted rice back into grape leaves, try to wrap them so they don’t tear. I’m rolling another dolma and there’s a pecking at the door. ![]() I churr my way to the stove, hoist the casserole from the oven, carry it to the table, count till she sits down. My fingers mark the seconds till she swings open the kitchen door, pinches my upper arm, her signal for me to help. “Pinch your nose and try it yourself,” I want to suggest. And not being able to hum increased my enjoyment of humming. My face furied and steamed like it does when I feel bamboozled. It surprised me immensely to hear that, and I immediately gave it a test. Mother has wearied of my humming and has forbidden me to do it, but I’m bursting to share my new discovery, that it’s impossible to hum while holding your nose. She pats the table once and returns to the kitchen, where I’m not allowed while she’s cooking, so I wait in the dining room and think about what we can discuss at dinner. I catch myself starting to hum, stop, then count again.įinally, z must please her. Her silence has always meant danger here, be alert, so I take two steps back, shield myself against a reply which doesn’t come. “It’s just me and you, mother,” I blurt out, hoping she’ll relax. I count, to myself, the seconds between her adjustments, calculate the median. Her lips tighten as she sets, then resets, the cutlery. Mother’s stone quiet as she smooths and straightens and tugs at the lace tablecloth.
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