| |
[31.8.06] [Utahna Faith]
FLASH FICTION: CHERRY BLOSSOMS: (AMICABLE MUTINY)
"It's not that we can no longer feel properly. It's that we're constantly being asked to feel the intangible. Like occidentalizing a—I don't know—a tiger."
Cherry Blossoms: (amicable mutiny)
by R. "Kindrid" Parker
I can hardly feel a thing. It's not like frostbite—just the way you would imagine frostbite. It doesn't matter now. Her strength is sapped anyway. We're just two numb entities. At the Safeway, the bottom of her bag fell out—eggs all over; she said, "Strange, I'm not subject to this overcast," indicating the fresh, leaden clouds with upturned eyes.
I drove on the wrong side of the road—all the way home—traffic swerving and honking. I'd say something like, "Those avocados are not yet fully ripe, which is a good thing, cause we have some ripe ones already, you know?"
The fingers go first, and then the eyes. Funny, people always have those traumatic fantasies about losing their sense of sight or hearing, but not their sense of touch. Not like paralysis—more like frostbite. Maybe I'm being too dramatic. It's not that we can no longer feel properly. It's that we're constantly being asked to feel the intangible. Like occidentalizing a—I don't know—a tiger.
She labored with the key in the lock. Her thumb and forefinger went rubbery. They were pointless nonentities. It was like watching someone try and tie a shoe with two hotdog wieners.
"Shit," she sniggered, "fucking fingers don't work."
I took her hand into mine, assuring her that I was there for her, to open the lock for her; any lock. Her fingers quickly thawed, enabling her to, not only open the lock, but to brush an eyelash from my cheek. Make a wish, I thought, considering how many prior wishes I'd wasted, how many unnoticed eyelashes had dropped from my cheek un-blown, unwished...how many 11:11s went unconsumed, peripherally neglected...how many slices of pie not eaten backwards, crust first, so the final bite is the point to be wished on.
"Why are you just standing there?" she asked. "Come on in. Those bags must be heavy."
It was all ice behind my eyes. I walked face first into the water heater. I could hear her purse being placed somewhere, the keys, the clunk and clang of regular daily tools. She called me a silly boy. My sight returned.
Without constant upkeep—constant attention, everything freezes. I'm running a bath now. That might work, if I can time it right, we can both freeze and thaw in perfect harmony. Tandem is the word.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
 R. "Kindrid" Parker is from San Francisco. He likes long walks on short beaches. He is a moment addict. He is a subjective parrot. He is a muted parrot. He is a boredom assassin. He's been a strip club DJ, a cab driver, a dangerously empathetic concierge, a book seller, an English tutor/T.A., and will soon be a muted professor of blah-blah.
[permalink]
|
[4 comments]
|
