|Bubbles and Seeds (standard:other, 1162 words)|
|Author: vihksin||Added: Jan 27 2003||Views/Reads: 2709/1819||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|people being the saved and the saviors for others, finally finding a way to be both for themselves only.|
I'm gazing out the café's window, at the gigantic neon sun melting directly over an invisible horizontal stripe in the sky. Now watch this glass of chilled 7-Up. No really, just look, I paid three bucks for this. It's so cold its sweating onto the brown counter, a perfect watery circle. I squish my lemon slice into the fizzing soda, along with two pale seeds. Savior-bubbles rush to gather around the poor victim of a seed, lift it up to the sweet surface and inevitably vanish with an unheard pop as the seed plunges back down to the very bottom. Repeat. Such martyrdom for the seed happens over and over again, except for of course, the other seed--the fat one. Too heavy with shame or guilt or anger to even feel the hope of being saved. Those damn bubbles, Ruth would say, think they're too good for me? Okay, they probably are, but you, oh slender one, you just wait til the soda goes flat...you'll be exactly where I am, then what? Huh? Well maybe she would replace the word bubbles with the other b- word, and so on, but that's exactly how she feels. She reminds me of it every night over the phone. I motion for another slice of Mom's Freshly Baked Apple Pie (my last slice was still frozen in the middle) to-go, since it's a quarter past seven and she's been calling my apartment non-stop for fifteen minutes. I push open my door and musky air sneak-attacks my nostrils as I pick up the nearest phone. Yeah, sorry I'm late. Yes, I know you call the same time every night, for the past four hundred-something nights. No, I can't guess, what happened? Then I begin listening. And I begin thinking why I hadn't picked up the cordless phone instead. How I don't even know what musky truly smells like, but the word just sounds right, so close to mucky. Ruth's ranting on about three pink dresses, her perfect sister Angie, and mandatory whorish make-up. Whorish make-up reminds me of girls reminds me of dates reminds me of the calendar. My calendar, yes; this is definitely the highlight of the day. It's sad but the feeling I get when I let myself X out twenty days just to catch up to the present one is satisfying. Oops, I unintentionally forgot to cross them out each night. There goes three weeks of this crap life--flew by without me even noticing, it was so nice. Ruth cuts me off with the words "no man" and "my fat ass." Fat ass reminds me of marshmallows reminds me of boy scouts remin--wait a minute, if today's November 12th, tomorrow's Angie's wedding. Not that it has much to do with me, except it must be what Ruth is bubbling and moaning about. I ask where did she say the wedding banquet was going to be again, feigning interest. I don't bother listening to her answer; instead I stretch the beige phone cord completely straight and plop into my vinyl beanbag chair and shut my eyes. Ruth's in front of me. Her medium height, brown hair, medium skin tone, brown eyes, and medium weight are all there, but not counting for much. She's standing there, cheery yellow balloon tied to her wrist, all content like the balloon is. Like the balloon has to be. Then tall and mocha brown-haired Angie skips down the aisle in her poofy white wedding dress, lips lip-sticked, hazel eyes eye-lined and curves somehow still curving through the big dress. The balloon suddenly pops without a sound and its shattered pieces morph into glass bit by bit as both sisters grab some. Rubbery glass flies back and forth across the bridge of my nose until all is still again. I look to my left and watch as the last sliver of glass embeds itself into Ruth's stomach, thhhuk. A bloated lemon seed is what she's become, and to my right is a skinny one sporting a veil. Before another thought, I'm run over by hundreds of bubbles, each with either an unruly handle-bar moustache, sideburns that meet at the chin, bleeding gum line, tacky fake pearls, bushy unibrow, unsightly bulky eyeglasses, rancid food speckled beard, or a pierced lip...everything Ruth has ever found wrong with her family. What's wrong with my family? My eyes open and Ruth's screaming into the phone that's two feet away. Click here to read the rest of this story (52 more lines)
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