Featured in the online journal New World Writing, Spring 2014
Here he is—unmarried, fat, with few cravings, stuck in a stucco house waiting for parcels to arrive by UPS, waiting for anything to come out of the blue. Anything would be welcome—bill collectors, laryngitis, UFOs. But a letter from Laura would be nice. He really wants nothing else. On the sidewalk a neighbor walks her mutt, which resembles a carnival corndog. He saw a dog like that on Animal Planet. The necks of the neighbor and her corn-dog stretch similarly toward their mutual goal, the curb. She wears creased shorts that end just above her less than thrilling knees. Her hair is wispy, frothy, like something from a French bakery.
The disgruntled old guy with asthma struts by with his fuzzy Standard Poodle. He imagines this old guy with a whiny wife who tries to make him eat goat cheese and arugula. The old guy must sing “Hallelujah” when he is out the door with the Standard Poodle. They march down the sidewalk, ready to spank any corn-dog that crosses their path.
A wasp has sneaked into the stucco house. Trying to shoo it away, he is stung between two digits, and a welt arises. He doesn’t flinch. He stares at the sting stoically. He is stoic in his stucco house. Since Laura left he feels nothing but her absence. Yet now he searches for some sticky gunk to soothe his finger, for the wasp sting is not fake. It is a true wasp sting, and he feels it. The salve on his finger is like mustard spreading on a light crispy crust.