Chapter One

If she didn’t get home soon she would surely lose it. Words rang through her. She grasped the sentence that formed the beginning of something great. She repeated it to herself, in a futile attempt to maintain its shape. Perfect words are hard to come by and even harder to hold onto. Adele pushed her palms together and tried to control her darting eyes. Each red light was a painful reminder of carelessly leaving behind anything to write on or with. Escape was imminent. Letters were liquefying; flowing free from her. Emptiness was as near as the upcoming turn toward her destination.

Depletion is a dangerous sport. Deprivation from writing doesn’t have the same effect as hydrating after dehydration. That feeling of nourishment. The wet coolness making its way through the body. Your insides soak it up like a small piece of heaven. If you stave off replenishment long enough it can be near orgasmic.

It wasn’t intentional, her lack of writing. Words without substance don’t come. Heavy is a full pen with not a line worth making. Blank pages reveal nothing of what you meant to say.

She bit her bottom lip; it was all she could do to keep from telling the taxi driver to go faster. Catching words in the moment was worth a lot to her, but not enough to risk her life. The perils of driving terrified her. But she was tied with no other options than to surround herself in metal to get from point A to point B. In a blink of an eye a persons entire world could be displaced. The horrors were too real to her.

It never fully made sense to her. How does one simply lose control of their car? It happens. Her mother would not have been driving recklessly. She had a sound car. It lost control.

“Mrs. Gerald? This is Officer Patterson. We need you to go to County Hospital. Your mother’s been involved in an accident.” He sounded terse.

Silence. She couldn’t move. The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. There was an air of coldness coursing through her warm body. Her knees threatened to crack from the pressure.

“Ma’am, are you there? I could send someone for you.” The mans voice now tender. “You need to get there now.”

“I – I’m on my way.” She hung up the phone in disbelief. She knew nothing; she hadn’t asked the Officer anything. Running through her mind was an array of possible situations she could be about to face. None of them involved the truth. She knew nothing, but yet she knew it all right away.

Her husband wasn’t home, as usual. She was on her own, as usual. She emitted a short bellow of a wail. Laying in a carrier placed on the floor beside her, three year old Camelot followed suit.

She has no idea how long it took her to reach the hospital, but it didn’t feel long. Perceptions have the tendency to be deceiving. This may have been one of those times as it was too late by time she arrived. Adele’s mother was gone.

Almost 15 years later, after an evening out celebrating her 50th birthday she’s being driven into the same driveway that she pulled out of the day her world collapsed. Her perfect words now faded and replaced by fragments of what once was. She has lost so much already. Now today served as a reminder that her time will come too. A memento mori.

God dangles life and death in our faces, mocking us with our own damn existence. It is always right there in front of us, easily accessible, both options. It's our own choice ultimately, to live or not. He gives it to us but makes us aware that we can give it back. It's a return policy, with different rules. But God is the one who instills thoughts into our heads. Therefore, when we realize the truth it's really just him instating the policy.

Sometimes everything is just too much. Does the world have any idea how easy it would be to die? How could she have not seen all this before? Unless she just did not want to see it.

Nothing lasts forever. Not words, not mothers or husbands, and not love. Exception: her son.

Don’t you see? The past and the future are equally irrelevant. She sees it, and tries not to dwell. The past is gone and the future is highly unstable. You can learn from the past and plan for the future, but neither acts are solid. The very foundation on which we stand marks the reality of all that does not matter. Maybe the only sure truth from death is that it is destined to happen repeatedly with little to no reprieve. We are all time bombs set to go off when God sees fit.

She was relieved that her birthday was nearing its end. It’s never a pleasant day, instead a reminder of all that your life lacks. Substance. Family and friends can only add so much. What friends anyway. Those people are mere acquaintances.

The sun was beginning to set as the yellow cab edged its way toward her two-car garage. The house was lit up: her son was home. Her stomach growled and she could only hope that he had prepared dinner. Birthdays always prove brutal. Exhaustion ran rampant. Her fatigued bones creaked when she finally stepped out of the car.

Maybe it was alcohol induced, but the driver got a rather large tip. She feared her facial expressions, if he bothered to look, would have shown the brink of lunacy. A madwoman may have inadvertently been revealed through her eyes. Paying him off made her feel better. Walking to the back of the house, she unexpectedly found her son. He sat at the far end of the yard in the wooden gazebo they had built together.

They spent an entire summer building it. It was the first and only year she didn’t teach year round. Five years ago her son was becoming a teenager. They spent the summer fishing, camping and building. While she would never dream of changing him now, at the time she feared he was raised to be a bit too effeminate. He was sewing and cooking by time he was ten. She wanted him to be self-sufficient with no need to rely on a woman. And together they would not have to depend on others for happiness. He was all she had to keep from killing herself.

Her sons face lit up when he seen his mother walking toward him. He waited until she got closer before saying Happy Birthday. It did her heart good to hear her sons’ soft voice. They hadn’t spoken all day. Under normal circumstances she would have been up in the morning, instead she slept in. She sat beside him and placed an arm around her dainty boy. He rested his head against the top of her shoulder.

“How was it, ma? Did you have fun?”

“Seeing purple in a sunset reminds me that nothing in life is perfect,” she said, staring intently into the sky.

“Does that mean you didn’t?”

“Even God has flaws illuminated by an easily destructible universe.”

“Okay, mom.” He scooted even closer to her warm body. The gazebo served properly to shield the wind, but the temperature was still harsh. “Let’s go inside. The food’s almost done.”

“In a minute, okay sweetie?” she seemed detached.

“Sure mom,” he replied as he proceeded to leave her.

The air was dour and biting. She watched her sons’ delicate gait through the yard to the red backdoor. She released a tired sigh and watched the breath dissipate. A chill entered the top of her head through to the base of her neck.

She craved the intangible. Instead, she settled for chicken and corn. The kitchen was bright and smelled of potatoes. The thick warmth was instant relief. Her face flushed as she savored the feel of heat entering her body. The frustration exists as embers much like the ones firefighters have to search for to ensure they won't flare up as they are liable to do.

His soft blonde hair hung in his face as he reached across the table to fix the place setting. It was thin and straggly with its length reaching just below the ear. She was known to badger him about its length. His oblong face did not match his small nose identical to his mothers. His chestnut eyes pleaded innocence as he watched his mother make her way, groggily to the kitchen table. Her beady blue eyes pleaded somnolent. She stretched her thin lips to each side in a futile attempt at smiling while hanging her coat on the hook near the door. He returned her weak smile with his bottom lip turned out in sympathy.

She reached for a roll from the middle of the table as she took a seat. Her son placed the butter next to her and sat down. She cut the bread in half while watching her son place a napkin on his lap. He wore faded jeans with a tear half way up his calf. A baby blue button up shirt remained open revealing a plain white undershirt. He moved the chicken closer to her and then poured corn onto her plate. She reached for a breast. He bit into a thigh.

“Why is there gravy without potatoes?” she asked as she proceeded to smother her chicken.

“Yeah, I went to drain them over the sink,” he pointed, “and I dropped the whole pan. It just slipped.”

“Did you get burned?” hey eyes widened.

“I jumped out of the way. My pants got a little wet; I threw them in the hamper. I’m fine though, really.”

“Well that’s good,” she said before yawning.

“So, where did you go? Were they as boring as you said they would
be?” he inquired of her afternoon.


“Aunt Penny couldn’t make it so it was just the four of us from my department, We had a few drinks at that country western club near the mall.”

“Boot Loose? Did you dance?”

“Yes and yes. I had to entertain myself somehow. Not only that but I would have done anything to get away from their tedious conversations. Work and gossip.” She rolled her eyes and he laughed. “It’s the same things every time. Get new material already.”

“Speaking of new material, I got you something for your birthday,” he rang out with a sudden excitement. “It accentuates dinner too! Or would it be dinner accentuating the gift? Oh it doesn’t matter, let me go get it.” He shot up from the table.

She couldn’t help but feel her aura of wistfulness escape with his onslaught of enthusiasm. Leaning forward in her seat she wondered what he got for her. It always proved interesting. Ever since he was a little boy he would bring home random items for his mother. Acorns, tadpoles, turtles, every kind of wild flower at one time or another, rocks, leaves. All things of nature and all things that made him think of her for any various unrestricted reason. A single blade of grass once reminded him of her hair. It was cute and endearing.

He plodded audibly back down the stairs. Under an arm was an oddly shaped object. The wrapping job was laughable but added character. At least it wasn’t wrapped in newspaper like last mothers day. Or a small package deeply hidden with confetti and packing peanuts in an extra large box as he did for Christmas.

Pushing her chair away from the table, she rose to retrieve the gift that he held out for her with a gleeful grin upon his face. She noticed a real smile that had effortlessly formed on her long-faded pink lips. No one else got her anything. If her sister had been there tonight then she would have at least gotten a card. With certain care, she ripped through the paper.

A chicken. He got her a rubber chicken. She quirked an eyebrow.

“I think it’s dinner accentuating the gift.”

“It’s not an angry chicken, but it’s a chicken just the same.”

“Oh! That is so darling! And quite clever. You’ve given me my muse for my birthday!” She wrapped her arms around her boy.

“Yeah, I couldn’t resist. It’s almost too perfect.”

“It doesn’t match the décor, but I’m putting it on the shelf above my desk.” Of course, she hadn’t been serious when she had told him her muse was an angry chicken. She assumes he knows she was being sarcastic with her euphemism, but she had sounded serious when she answered. Her lack of writing was prominent when he asked her that. Disappointment comes in word counts seeming to standstill. Ninety percent of her writing time was spent thinking about the act/art of writing rather than doing.

“This really is near perfection.” She said near truthfully.

“I do what I can. Seeing a genuine smile from you is refreshing and worth the effort it took to find that. Do have any idea how rare rubber chickens are? You’d be surprised.”

“I never did ask you what your muse looks like.”

“You’re my muse, mom. My muse looks like the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” She turned away to sit back down at the table.

“Let’s not doubt the power of the almighty beholder.”

They finished the remainder of dinner in an unusual stillness as she feigned for sleep. Tomorrow was full with final preparations for the first day of school.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

He had to hurry if he wanted to catch the bus. He quickly dug his feet in his shoes unbending the back that his heels crushed as he raced out of his sanctuary. First to the bathroom grabbing two pairs of jeans, both dark denim, off the floor beside the shower. In his bedroom, he opened his closet to reveal a floor covered in dirty laundry. In much haste he shuffled through the mess grabbing a pair of khakis, black dress pants, and light denim jeans. Only five, he added in his head. In the corner under his window, he poured out the contents of his puke green laundry basket, which contained only socks. He opened his bottom dresser drawer taking out his favorite jeans. Shredded on the bottom, two belt loops hung free, with a hole beneath the back pocket revealing his boxers, and a tear across the knee. Comfort like that is rare. He stepped out of his current black jeans and into his favorites, what he called ‘old blue tried and true.’ He would kill for more perfect fitting jeans. Dumping the six pairs of pants in the basket, he reached back into the dresser for another pair of khakis. He shook them unfolded and threw them in the basket.

A quick once over in the mirror revealed his tired demeanor. No surprise to him as he snatched up the basket. In the kitchen, he dropped the clothes in order to don his jacket. He eyed his fridge with the magnetic poem he started to form the night before:

“how frail the wind blows
Sweeping men free of bowlers”

To which he added, with no time to spare for the bus:

“into gentler seas and calmer storms.”


The bus stop was only five minutes away. It had just pulled up once he arrived. They were only late when he was early. He took a seat in the back row to gain a view of the others onboard. Staring was a fault as hard to contain as an imminent volcano eruption. The world around him never failed to entertain and amuse. He took note of the usual characters, the ones he developed little stories for in his mind. Like the tall woman, middle aged, with a long dark ponytail and only ever seen in jeans and t-shirts. He envisioned her getting off the bus, returning home from a factory job. Two, maybe three kids represented by the bags under her eyes. She would have to cook dinner every night for her dominant husband who got off on pulling her hair violently in bed. She sat next to the boy once, he almost moved as she reeked of stale cigarettes. Her eyes though, the window to the soul revealed her purity, which was confirmed one humid afternoon when she gave up her seat for a feeble man.

He brought his basket to his lap in preparation for his upcoming stop, outside a local coin-op. The air was crisp and harbored the poignant aroma of the river passing behind the building. Compared to the bus, the rivers scent was a breath of fresh air. He watched the bus pull away leaving a trail of black smoke. The buildings roof revealed more black smoke billowing from an extended pipe. He took a deep breathe in yearning.

Outside the entrance was a man puffing steadily at his cigarette with long burning drags. A row of three orange plastic seats attached to each other and the building with Bob sitting on the end furthest from the door. They exchanged glances with the nod of their heads as they had shared a few conversations in the past. Bob stroked the bristles of his unshaven face as the clean-shaven boy struggled with the foggy glass door.

Inside the climate was stiff, as if starched. It held captive the scent and feel of a sweat shop. The bright lighting forced him to squint for his first minute it there. Machines whirred loudly as two kids ran free. Their mother sat idly, reading a magazine not seeming bothered by the children’s need to be heard above all else. All surfaces were damp from pent up moisture. The air he breathed felt thick and tasted of laundry detergent. He ended up in the corner at his usual machine, moving in slow motion. After dropping the basket to the linoleum floor, he began the search through the empty pockets of his pants. He moved slowly and looked around observantly.

With the chime of a bell, the door swung wildly open. In walked the tall, buff and bronzed Jim. The door remained open, caught in the wind, until Bob came inside and shut it behind him. Walking toward the boy, he stopped at his still running dryer. He peeked through the window like a little boy curious to see how it works. As if he could actually see that the clothes weren’t dry he stepped back outside probably for another cigarette. Jim bent to pick up a pair of shorts matching the boys’ basket. The boy was transfixed by the mans flexed body and flawless ass curvatures. He felt delicate and dainty in comparison. The mans deep voice drove nails through the boys skull the one time they spoke when Jim asked to borrow a dryer sheet. His words had pummeled him.

After starting his load, the boy took his corner seat leaning his head against the sticky wall. He turned sideways in his seat to stretch his legs out on the next chair. This semester was going to fly by, he thought to himself. He felt that luck was with him once again. Comfort was hard to attain in making class schedules.

He couldn’t help but notice the girl in the corner opposite him. He chose his corner for the sole purpose of having a clearer view of her. She was there every week at the same time, as was Bob and Jim. She initiated the stare off months ago, he only obliged. Vowing to forgo approaching girls who would either turn him down or end up being crazy, he chose not to approach her. He would wait, until waiting proved intolerable. Why was it so absurd for a girl to come to him for once? He sensed his breaking point looming over him tonight as she stared him down with her squinty hazel eyes. With her hair cut short, she dressed mostly like a boy. But a cute one at that. He saw a delicate feminine side to her, despite never speaking. She kept to herself, even more so than he did.

One of the noisy kids, a little girl with pigtails, began to cry and the mother immediately scolded the other, her brother. The oversized mother hadn’t even seen what went on. What a stereotypical injustice. As a kid, his own older brother tormented him and only rarely got called on it.

Bob was leaving now, with his green duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Another followed the bell sounding from Bobs exit as the man on rollerblades came in. He carried a backpack on his back and was always seen in a suit and tie. He would take off his rollerblades before anything else and proceed to walk the dirty floors in his gray socks. But the most intriguing thing about this man: he was never seen washing any part of any suit, and also he was only ever seen wearing that one suit. Plaid tweed with elbow patches, year round.

The boy changed his load over pretending not to notice that he had forgotten both his detergent and dryer sheets. Even with that, he was probably still the most normal person in that Laundromat. The man with rollerblades dumped the entire contents of his bag into the washer. He then reached in to take out the soap that fell too.

As soon as the boy sat back down the little girl ran up to him and stopped. She smiled and he returned it with a grin and a silent wish for her to go away. Instead, she stood there with her smile taking on an evil appearance. He stared back with a blank look upon his face. Neither one so much as blinked. She clearly wasn’t leaving on her own volition anytime soon. He crossed his eyes causing her to run away laughing. When did little kids become so ballsy? In his younger days, he was timid, and then he realized that he still was today. Not that he wasn’t ballsy too, just on a lesser scale.

It was blurry, but he could see the sun setting through the doors glass. For now, he leaned against the wall once again. It would be dark by time he left. It would be cold, but the wind was calm. He decided to walk home tonight, with his puke green laundry basket in tow. He hoped it would awaken his senses enabling him to write rather than sleep.

He had only one day of freedom left. He thought he should do something to celebrate, to usher in the semester on a positive note. However, he had nothing to do, and there was nobody to do it with even if he had something.

He looked over to the girl, returning her gaze. She was very attractive, and her grace oozed of confidence. The way she carefully folded her laundry ensuring a clean flat fold. He noticed she only washed shirts today, how odd. Mostly polo shirts which he’s seen she wears with the collars popped. She had a few concert t-shirts and he always viewed that as an easy conversation starter as they share the same taste. He tried to envision her screaming and jumping along with the crowd, hypnotized by the performance. She seemed so delicate, in a short fingernails sort of way.

Maybe he should talk to her. It’s not like he ever kept new year resolutions. He didn’t even make them anymore to avoid disappointment. He wasn’t avoiding her from a fear of rejection, but simply from being tired of always being the one to do the initiating. They’ve made great stride in the whole woman’s liberation movement, but yet they can’t do this? Not to mention that it is still expected of a guy to hold doors and pay for everything on dates. He tried to not even have to go out on dates. They were embarrassing. How do you showcase your true self when you know you are putting yourself on display to be scrutinized by a potential piece of ass that you can ultimately do without. It wasn’t worth it.

But she could be. She smiled once, a few weeks ago. He noticed her eyes and felt that her smile was forced. He returned nothing. Back to staring.

That was then. Today was today. Who was he to say that he would ever see her again, despite having seen her every week. Who’s to say the sun will even rise tomorrow? Regret is heavy. Regret isn’t about missing a bus because you decided to press the snooze button. It’s even more than knowing that with every bit of mementos you clean out of your room you’re throwing away a piece of your childhood. Real regret is untouchable and life altering. Back away because I’m on fucking fire, burning a hole through my heart with barbed wire regrets. They were being stupid, it should be more than this ogling. He knows it and she knows it, she just has to.

Carpe Diem! She gathered her things to leave and in turn he threw his almost dry jeans into his basket. He practically ran to the door just in time to open it for her. She smiled as she walked past him and he leaned in to smell her fragrance. Her scent was faint with the outside air and the buildings climate all meeting at once under his nose. Following her, he let the door close behind them as he ran a hand along the top of his head to smooth forward his hair.

“Ahem.”

She turned to look.

He Stammered, “I-I couldn’t help but notice you staring at me. For like the past couple of months.”

“You remind me of someone I know.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I don’t know, I guess it would be both.” Already he could sense an elusive quality about her. No wonder why he was drawn to her.

“Well, either way, would you want to get together someday, outside of the suffocating Laundromat?”

“Why do you only wash pants?” She asked in return.

“I’m sworn to secrecy.” He let forth a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, that’s normal,” she smiled genuinely and added a tilt of the head. “Do you have something to write my number?”

“No, but I’ll remember.”

After parting ways he quickly reached into his pocket for his pen and scrap paper. A true writer doesn’t leave the house without the essentials.