A broken marriage.
A new job.
She works as a Personal Assistant on the ForNoah Youtube channel.
Noah is on the autistic spectrum and she fixes things for him.
He's a shipwright and creates beautiful works of art.
She's a woman starting over who meet...
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Ring...
My dexterous fingers rummage through the clutter of my purse in search of those blasted keys. A crumpled piece of paper with apple sauce stains, a note scrawled on it from my husband. Errr, he should have called the repair guy for the garage door. Of course, he forgot again. It's not like we can afford it, but it's more expensive to leave it as is. A small door break turns into a big door break when it goes unfixed, which just means more money to pull from empty pockets. The repairmen isn't a choice and what a stupid thing to argue about.
A small child could fit into this huge mom bag. Eighty thousand thoughts going in a hundred different directions cloud my mind. Almost like a second rain cloud on what should have been a clear day because the first rain cloud wasn't fuck you enough. My hand digs deeper into the purse, picking out all the rejected offerings to my bag monster. Juice—no. Crayons—no. Every other damn thing I don't need right now—no, no, no.
Ring...
"Yes, I hear the phone. I'm coming, dang it." I bite the corner of my lip because, you know —magic powers. Powers that will give me what I want. Yup, no magic just the real world.
I blow out a harsh breath in frustration. Keys, keys, keys.
"Mom, am I gettin' the Star Wars set for my birthday?" my son asks.
Things have been so tight lately, I'm not sure we can swing it. We'll try, but we got the house payment to make. Those name-brand sets are so expensive.
"Eh, baby, you're going to need to wait until your birthday to find out."
Great. Worst mom ever. I should tell Little Man things are tight, but I can't. The chances of getting the playset are slim to none. My daughter looks up at me with her old knowing eyes. She shakes her head. She heard me fighting with her dad about money. Another mom of the year moment where I failed, and she knows we don't have money for shit. She might be six, but she's an old six. My guilty eyes shift away from the problem and back to the door that needs a stupid key to open.
Ring...
One foot hovers precariously on that doorstep, and I could swear this damn locked door is laughing. Can't find the key. A foolish quick glance at my baby boy and I avoid eye contact with his ever hopeful eyes. True cowardly move. He has almost outgrown his Lando Calrissian outfit, complete with the cape. He wears it everywhere. At some point, we will need to sew another together—more work to do.
Little Man stumbles and knocks my hand in the handbag, and my fingers finally trip over the key
"Ah, got it."
I shove the key into the lock, and my heavy purse swings behind me as soon as the door opens. My kids run through the door. It's a race to the phone for me.
"Don't forget to put away your shoes and get ready for spelling practice. And don't slam the—" Crack... the door. I'm too late, of course, as they did.
Ring...
Beep...
Click.
"Hi, sorry, you just missed us. Leave a message at the beep, and we will get back to you." My cheerful voice comes through the answering machine.
Damn, just missed it.
Beep...
"Oh, yesssss... Sooooo good. Just like that. Yeah, all the way down...yes, yes." It's my husband's familiar voice over the phone. "Yes, lick the head..." he grunts. I close my eyes, frozen in that second, knowing I should hit the button. I should do something—anything. Tendrils of icy fingers creep along my brown skin. The coldness spreads out, conquering my heart, mind, and body. I become like a frozen statue. Six years of marriage and that all too familiar voice is etched on my heart. My husband's words become a cold ghostly hand to push my iced block self over, shattering me. "Oh, yes," he moans in orgasm over the phone. And with his orgasm, he pulverized my heart into tiny, painful, icy shards he carelessly discarded.
Click—end call.
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