Fishbowl
Nineteen and the men are buying me illegal drinks in a smoky pool hall the city will shut down within the year. I’m wearing my navy blue airline uniform. I’m told the shade is a color people trust. I don’t acknowledge him until he won’t stop. Desperate to get my attention, I give in, sipping from my fishbowl of a cocktail, buzzed but still sober enough to know better – even at that age. Later, when I leave with him, I see the empty child’s car seat sitting in plain view in the back seat of his Subaru. I see the crumbs of graham crackers, boxes of juice, the finger paintings tossed aside by a working mother, hurried to get somewhere on time, to get to the grocery store, to get through another long day. I don’t question him about his life or his wife because the answers will illuminate my own guilt in this crime. I look for evidence in the front seat, clues that other fatherless boys have been in my place before. The night soldiers on. In a rented motel room, the military career comes up. He tells me he was a hero once. I ask him who he saved. He can’t remember their names but don’t worry because his wife is getting on a late night flight for Baltimore to give a speech in a carpeted hotel ballroom, waiting for a text or a call – reassurance that everything is fine at home, that she’s missed. In the motel bathroom, I wash him from my skin, knowing a passenger is fastening her seat belt, preparing for takeoff, going over her speech. In her mind she is safe and fearless and wise. For more great work check out: WrenValentino.com Goodreads YouTube Channel
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