"I will not work anyplace that does not allow
sparklies," she said.
Damn right, I say. Life is short,
pass the glitter!
Let me sprinkle it in my office
and wear it my hair.
(more) Because you never know what's
going to happen next.
Bright colors please, no more black.
Make it beautiful, no matter what.
Myself, I have no artistic talent
I draw like a five year old, all stick
figures, flat houses, blue strip sky
and the requisite yellow ball -
the sun, of course. No matter,
I doodle just the same.
I open a box of crayons and its like being
third grade again, except now
I know how to share.
I go to museums like some people go to church.
As a matter of fact I go to museums
when some people go to church.
I hope not to offend anyone by praying
in the art gallery.
And I wear bright colors often.
"Where's my ring?"
"Yeah, my ring. I put it right there on the counter, I thought, while I was washing the dishes and-"
The recollection burst through his mind. He'd gone to pick up the china dish with the picture of the Eiffel Tower on it, to(more) put it away in the cupboard and he'd felt himself knock something into the sink. He'd looked down immediately but didn't see anything more than ripples fading in the murky water.
It must have been the ring.
"I think I knocked it into the sink."
"Don't worry, we'll get it back. It's okay."
That was her mother's ring. And her mother's ring before that. He could already see a tear welling up in the corner of her eye as she avoided his gaze. He had to get it back.
So he dug around in the sink, lifted all the silverware and plates and cups out, set them on the counter, the water spreading like an oil spill across it.
And he let all the water out, turned off the faucet, and craned his neck down so he could look into the drain.
There it was, the beautiful heirloom ring. A little green, maybe, but none the worse for wear.
Sitting right under the garbage disposal.
"Okay, honey, I've got it. Just give me a second."
He reached down, way, way down into the drain, squeezing his fingers past the wickedly sharp blades of the disposal, pushing his hand down past them to the wrist. He felt one of the blades tear his skin and stopped for a moment, feeling the pain of the cut. But he pushed through it and grabbed the ring.
And turned to say, "I've got it!" when he heard a loud, sudden, vicious-sounding "click!"(less)
Greta is a girl who talks a lot about when ''when we were kids." I am not sure how old she is--maybe a few years older than me at most, but she must think I am a decade behind her, or that I was oblivious for the first ten(more) years of my life. She keeps scoffing at the American Apparel ads, claiming each time she sees a chick with an off-the-shoulder shirt, "BEEN THERE! DONE THAT!" To whom is she speaking, I wonder?
There was nothing I wanted more, when I was six, than a rhinestone-studded denim jacket like my sister had. While she favored name brands, I hoped that I might get a little kit to make one of my own design. There were little claws that would grasp the jewels, and I wanted to decide where they went. I would pull at the metal tabs on the jewels of my sister's jacket, and she would tattle up to the front seat that I was trying to steal them. I don't know if I didn't understand the engineering or I really wanted one of the aqua hexagons, but I told myself that they were little tiny dinosaur hands, and I was merely inspecting them. My sister and her friends were drawn to Barbie and Jem, but I wanted to make my rhinestones in the shape of a triceratops (because he was vegetarian). I thought it would be good to call a rhinestone dinosaur Ghandi or LutherKing, because those were peaceful names, and also because I had a hard time imagining female dinosaurs.
When my sister outgrew her jacket, or was too cool for it, she wouldn't let me have it, because she feared I would dissect it, decrease it's value. If I got it, it would be worth nothing.(less)
Melinda's eyes glistened, rhinestones in the clear, silent night.
"Worthless," Daniel repeated. "Worthless, useless. Absolutely unbelievable."
He stood, pacing, his fists clenched tightly in the moment of rage. That's what it was, Melinda tried to convince herself. Simply a moment. Somewhere within, though, she kn(more)ew this was not true. It was not that Daniel had moments of rage. Daniel was a constant rage, an unending storm throwing about and capsizing the boat that was the fragility of her dignity.
"Mistake after mistake. How much do you expect me to accept?” Daniel demanded, his voice rising as each word came as a flood.
Melinda restrained from whimpering, staring with sorrow and terror from behind those glistening stones.
“HOW MUCH?” he demanded, once again. He continued to ask this question, over and over, but she knew better than to respond. She had made that mistake one time, years before. After so long, she had learned how to keep the storm from tearing her apart completely.
“Worthless,” Daniel began mumbling to himself. “Foolish, worthless, useless. Stupid, ignorant girl. How could one not loathe your mere existence? Till death do us part, you say? As you wish…As you wish…AS YOU WISH!”
And as his fist made contact with her soft, pallid skin one last time, the glistening rhinestones froze within. For the split second before her transparent eyelids closed, her dark pupils dilated. Still, they shined under the moonlight. (less)