The Second Ring

This piece was originally published by Cathexis Northwest Press.

She’s in the kitchen with your sister. The guys are vaping again, blowing sweet smoke across the back deck. You cough and complain but I am not breathing, only buzzing. 

You are telling me again about her. Again again again I say. You are miserable. I am a recurring apparition of what your mother wanted for you. You admit this to me but you do not act on it. Oh, tell me again how miserable she makes you. I promise I’ll tell you another joke, something darker this time. Only you would laugh. It’s an even exchange until it isn’t anymore.  

What do I do with all this desire? Please, I say, alleviate my guilt. Go ahead, craft another story for me. I’ll wait. I’m in the upstairs bedroom hiding from the noise. Knock twice when she’s gone. You do and then I call your name until I’m blue in the face. 

I climb over the sleeping bodies, muffle the floorboard creaks. I sneak out the back door but can’t drive home. I will end up in the East River and she will wear a navy dress to my funeral. You will squeeze her hand as you walk into the church and say oh, she was good to have around. Funny too. 

 I sleep in the dirt until morning, call you for a ride and you pick up on the second ring.