Page 142 of Cackle

Ever reliable, the TV has eaten away the hours. I thank it and blink to turn it off. I leave my dirty dishes in the sink.

I’m not going to do dishes on my birthday.

And besides, they can take care of themselves.

I put my dress back on. My shadow laces the corset. Ralph helps, too. He doesn’t contribute much, but he’s a good boy; he tries.

I feed him dead flies out of the palm of my hand.

“Few more minutes,” I tell him as I step into the bathroom to put on some makeup. Lately, I don’t wear much, because I’ve come to realize that I don’t need much, but it’s a special occasion. And it’s fun to wear lipstick.

As I lean in close to the mirror, dragging the tube across my bottom lip, I’m afflicted with a very specific memory of putting on lipstick before a dinner date with Sam. It was maybe four years ago. We were just going to our usual place around the corner from our apartment, but I decided to put on lipstick. When I emerged from the bathroom, he smiled and said, “Look at you.”

I haven’t thought of him much since his grand exit from my life, but occasionally I’ll experience an echo, the phantom sensation of an emotion that I know is expired. Sometimes it’ll trick me, and I’ll think that I miss him, that I still love him, that I’ll never fully amputate him from me. Usually then I count to eight, because I remember once reading about how, after people were beheaded by guillotines, their severed heads could blink and twitch for up to eight seconds.

By the eighth second, I’ll have regained my composure and reunited with the truth.

I’m glad to be rid of him.

“Look at you,” he said, and I didn’t hear it then, but replaying it now, I recognize the hint of condescension.

Condescension, the quiet destroyer. The spot on the lung discovered too late.

“Look at me,” I say, marveling at my reflection. “Look at me.”

I put Ralph in the front pocket of my dress.

“Ready?” I ask him.

He’s got his party hat, his horn. He’s so excited he can’t stop dancing. I shouldn’t have fed him the flies. He’ll go crazy for another half an hour and then pass out cold.

I don’t bother to lock my apartment anymore. I come and go as I please. Lynn has agreed to let me have the downstairs as well, and soon I’ll be able to remodel. I have some ideas. Sophie will help, of course.

The sun is generous in June. It’s high and bright despite the hour. It winks at me.

“Stay up as late as you like,” I tell it. Ralph thinks I’m talking to him. He does a flip inside my pocket.

“Hi, Annie! Happy birthday!” My neighbors all wait for me at the ends of their driveways, waving as I pass by, wishing me a happy birthday. Some of them hold sparklers.

“Thank you,” I tell them. “Thank you so much.”

Strange to think that a year ago I was in some random bar in the city taking tequila shots with Nadia, making a wish on a tea light candle.

What did I wish for?

I wished for happiness.

At the time, I thought that meant I was wishing for Sam. It’s best not to be specific with wishes. Otherwise, you end up getting what you think you want instead of what you really need. How dangerous.

When I get to Main Street, I pass the Good Mug first. Oskar and Erik stand out front. Erik hands me a bag of coffee beans.

“Happy birthday,” he says, smiling. He’s a very handsome kid. He’s going to cause real misery with that face. Obliterate fragile young hearts.

Oskar says nothing. He stands in the shadow of a streetlamp, half of his face in darkness. The visible half is stern.

I stare at him. If I focus for long enough, he’ll be forced to do something.

“Oskar,” I say.