SPIRAL of SHAME
Georgina pawed through her handbag wondering why she could never recognize the items in there by touch alone. I’d never be able to cope if I went blind, she thought. Something hard, taught and round found its way between her thumb and forefinger. Apple. She shoved it aside and continued to rummage. Where is my wallet? GoddamnwhycanIneverfindmywallet? She caught hold of something long, slender and cool to the touch. Keys.
“Sorry” she muttered to the saleswoman who was being forced to keep up a stiff smile of politeness. This was met by more glib smiling. I’ll bet she thinks I’m a right twat. Oh, god! I’ve become one of those women who can never –
“Sorry, I know it’s in here somewhere…” Georgina gave her bag a 180 degree turn and wrestled it up onto the counter to get a better look inside. Crumpled napkins, plastic cutlery, empty gum wrappers, loose change, the apple – again. With a sigh, Georgina upended her bag and shook it’s contents onto the counter.
Ker-THUNK
A yellow dildo. GASP!
The expression of the sales woman visibly brightened, her smile now genuine.
There was a pause the size of a pin before Georgina snatched the dildo and crammed it back into her handbag along with handfuls of other debris. She could feel her knees weakening, her body spiraling downwards unto the grubby carpet tiles. She could hear a voice, faint and muffled, like someone had thrown a duvet over a speaker. It said, Hello? Georgina? I think your wallet is in your pocket.
Kelli B.
Kelli B.
* * *
A BRIGHTENING SUN
I am sitting by my window, staring at the busy street corner but looking at my own thoughts. Then I catch sight of my hands, resting on my lap. My big, manly, robust hands. The chipped black varnish and the flaky tips of my nails. The inflamed flesh around them, the cracked cuticles, the never healing cuts.The numerous lines, like rippling spirals spreading from my knuckles; an aging sign.
I can't remember how it feels like to hold somebody's hand. I intertwine my fingers, as I used to do when I had someone's hand to hold, I look at them, those lonely powerful hands, and I feel sad for them. I start stroking my left thumb with my right, as if to say, there, there, it's all right.
A red light. Then green. As a car pulls away, its speakers leave a trail of "Yellow" by Coldplay. I try to wash it out of my head, but it gets replaced by another one of their songs: "a warning sign".
Uniformed youths gather by the crossing, carrying polystyrene boxes of death. One of them kicks the apple that fell from under his elbow; I twitch as the innocent fruit rolls under the wheels of a car.
I stretch my left arm up until I feel pins and needles. I hold by bloodless, numb left hand in my right one. It feels like the cold hand of a dead person. My hugging hands look like they're silently sealing my solitude.
An open roof double decker turns from the main road. Tourists wave hello. I wave goodbye.
Hélène L.
