Waving Not Drowning

Sharon stumbles over her uniform balled up on the floor, a tangled knot of grey and blue polyester, slick with oil and smelling like poverty. Too tired to hang it up or toss it over the kitchen chair she peeled it off, layer by layer. A trail of desperation and struggle. She crawls into bed defeated, exhausted. This schedule will be the death of her. Three hours of sleep and no end in sight. Not now, anyway. Somewhere down the line, he told her. Put your dues in and you'll see. Trust me. Sharon's got no time for trust. She's too tired to play the long con. Twenty one or slots. No dealer's choice for her. Everyone's got a finite amount of time, you just don't know the count. The only thing she can count on is no sure thing. Twenty three years, she's no further ahead then when she began. A hand out, a leg up, a free ride. If she'd only said yes. Just once. The right guy at the right time, the right place, the right job. Opportunity kn...

"Pick a card, any card." Kevin flared a deck in front of her with incredible ease and grace, so studied that it appeared the fan of laminated cards was a natural extension of his hand. "Not now, Kev, ok? I'm not in the mood." Kevin stood motionless for three seconds then with an exaggerated ruffle he collapsed the accordion of cards into a perfectly stacked deck, his gestures so fluid as to be unnoticeable. Sleight of hand. It was awkward between them. Tight, rough. Never date a magician, this is permanently etched into her brain now. She used to love it, the mystery, the tricks so remarkable she squealed with shock and delight. A total turn on. Talent gets her every time. Now it's one big irritation. A constant itch he needs scratched. Look at me, look at me. Did you see that, can you believe your eyes He's worse than that actor. Almost as bad as that stand up comic she slept with, the one who screamed like a girl. If Tracy wanted needy she...

Pick it up. Put it on the table, back where it belongs. Get the cloth, wipe the floor, wring it out, hang it up and start again. It's just a glass. No big deal. Millions of grains of sand fired into liquid molten lava, compressed, blown, turned, shaped. Cooled, polished, delivered. Destroyed. It's just a glass. A flimsy, delicate vessel entirely unsuited to the task at hand. You need the bottle. Amber hued or olive green. Half an inch thick. Weighty as you wield it in your hand like a weapon. Tilt the head back, grasping the neck as if to strangle the liquid out of it. Pouring, elbow raised, eyes closed, mouth open. This is no time for decorum. Decency has left the building. Drink, drink, drink To the last drop then let it roll Off the fingers, an extension of bone and skin Cool comfort.

There it was. Lying in the corner of the silver dish on the side table next to the couch. Right next to the ridiculously expensive dog comb she convinced Todd to buy that neither of them ever use. No wonder she couldn't find it. Why search the place they sit next to every day for hours on end as they stare straight ahead like zombies hypnotized by the 40 inch flatscreen. They don't even share the couch like they used to. Claire curls up in the lazy boy nestled under the green and red cottage throw which always smells faintly of woodsmoke and Off while Todd splays his limbs out like an Irish wolfhound in repose, engulfing the seven foot long sectional and ottoman. They bought that piece on layaway with her bridal shower money and took four years to pay it off because every time they went by the store to put money down they walked out with some other random appliance or side table or hand dyed silk and wool mix Persian rug they couldn't afford, didn't need but fel...

Oh come on, really? You can't be serious- I mean, I heard her. She said it was 5, not 6. Why do you think she said 6? Cause that's stupid, it's completely idiotic and if it's true then we're completely screwed, ok? Like totally shit outta luck. So why don't you call her or text her or bloody well send up the bat signal and see if you can get her to confirm your story because I am not going to take the heat on this one if we miss the plane. Can you do that? Can you make that happen or do I have to do it for you, like every other single thing in your life. Really. You are unbelievable. A fully grown man and you can't get your shit in order- why are we even having this conversation? Just do it, do something, do anything. DO IT! Grant studies the phone in his hand, too tired to respond. Every year it's the same thing. Home for the horror-days. He stayed away last year, took extra shifts at the bar and made hand over fist in pity tips from the barflys who h...

He can see himself laid out on the table below him. Everyone looks so serious. Lights and blips and buzzers. So much machinery. Faces covered with masks, blue hands tinted with chocolate syrup. Wait, no. That's blood. Hands dip in and out of the center of his chest, pulling out layer upon layer of gauze soaked through. So much blood. He's leaking his life force from a wide open mine in the center of his chest, spilling an endless tangle of tubes and cords, leaving trails of slick red lines smeard across his flayed torso. A watercolour explosion of streaks fading out as they drip to the floor. He feels no pain, which is strange. He's dreamt this moment over and over. This out of body, into the light experience. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He never envisioned the chaos, the disorder, the frantic recklessness diguised as absolute authority. It's uncouth. Graceless. So messy. All of these gowned bodies working with controlled urgency, a regimente...

Rise and shine! Bailey's tail thumps against the nightstand, a jackhammer wake up. The glass of water vibrates, threatening to topple over onto Carson's pillow. Again. He never learns. Either move the glass or get a bottle with a locking lid. Or close the door at night so at 6 am the dog doesn't inadvertently wake him up with a cold shower. Hungover. Slow moving. His eyes start to focus then bam, it hits him. A flashbomb blinding his vision. It's a new year. No idea what time he called it a night- somewhere between three bottles of Veuve and free flowing shots of Patron chased with salted pistachios and fried plantain. Friends with strange predilections. The remainders- cracked lips, salt-stained fingers and greasy cheeks. Depleted. Bailey paces, whining under his breath, drool leaking from his bear head. Carson swings his legs over the bed, heels hard on the cold floor, head in hands spinning, throbbing. Bailey's mastiff tongue shellacs his face, grooming his b...