It has been five years / Beer
by Francine Witte
Watch Francine read “It has been five years” and “Beer”
It has been five years
since the men started building the house. Now, I live in a seedy motel with a Shop-rite bag full of clothes. I drive by every day to politely inquire.
Bill, my ex, had promised me shelter. That was on our divorce night. The night he tossed me over the threshold on the way out of our marriage house. Younger woman coming through! he had laughed and then went back to drink a martini.
The lawyer I hired said it was ironclad. That Bill owed me another place to live. Hence, the house. Only no stipulation as to how fast.
So every day, I take a deep breath and drive down Elm Street where the empty lot is and the builders sit. Some of them playing cards. Others just reading the paper. I talk to Edgardo, the one in charge. He is eating a sandwich, wheat bread and lettuce. He sits in a chair, his legs sprawling out, his hairy belly poking out of his shirt. I ask him, like I do always, if he thinks it might be today.
He looks at me angry, at first, then just chuckles. “You don’t scare me,” he says. “You got dumped for a younger broad.”
This must be some kind of man telepathy. They all seem to know each other’s secrets. Only way to explain the untouched bricks, the unmoving builders, the ironclad lawyer who is no longer taking my calls.
Beer
5 o’clock and Sarah on a bar stool. This is how the evening starts.
It ends with Sarah’s boyfriend, Sam, buck dead on the floor.
Let’s connect the dots.
Let’s start with Sarah’s ringless hand gripping a beer mug. Spidery fingers and her eye on the door.
At 5:15, in walks Sam. Work still in his hair. Slicked-back and perfect. That’s Sam, she thinks. But damn, he’s hot.
Sam walks over to Sarah, “Hey babe,” he says. He says this in his presentation voice. Modulated. Pitch-perfect.
“Rough day?” Sarah asks, leaning in, and into his ear she whispers, “How about some rough sex?” She leans back, smiles and sips her beer. Somehow, she didn’t catch other-woman stink.
“Kind of tired,” Sam says. “How ‘bout tomorrow?” He winks. “Wanna have it just right for my cowgirl.”
Okay, so maybe Sarah didn’t need to bring her gun as much as she thought.
She wishes she could buy her gun a beer. Y’know, take it out of her beaded clutch, honk it on the bar and treat it like the good, reliable friend it is.
Do we really need more dots? We already know where this is going. More beer, gun finally out, Sam on the barroom floor?
But here it is anyway. Just moments before, Sam’s moving mouth, blah, blah, blah and there it is—the smudgy lipstick he forgot to wipe off.
And Sarah chugging the rest of her beer.
Francine Witte is a poet, flash fiction writer, and playwright. Her latest books are Dressed All Wrong for This, The Theory of Flesh, and The Way of the Wind. She lives in NYC.
