Alone
by Laura Johnson
The south Florida summer had never been kind to Marcy. Always heavier and slower than her peers, Marcy did not enjoy beachfront frolicking as a child. She had not had any saltwater romances as a teenager. No wavy sunkissed curls for Marcy; the damp heat flattened hair already matted by extra oils. Neither flaky scalp nor frizzy ends were among her problems.
Marcy’s mascara had always run into the sweaty corners of her eyes. Her orangey lipstick bled outside of her lip line. That’s how it was for girls like her. That’s how it would always be for her. At least that’s what Mother had always said. “Once a big girl, always a big girl, you can’t do nothing about that.” Marcy’s only hope was to be reliable. “Get a job and try not to be envious,” Mother had said.
Now, every day, regardless of heat advisories, Marcy walked to and from her secretarial job hiding under a skirt an ounce too heavy, a shade too dark, and an inch too long. She even wore long sleeves to conceal her fleshy arms that could turn red inside of 30 sunshiny minutes. Her inner thighs sweated, chafed, and bled as they rubbed together. She tried to make herself small inside her clothes as Mother’s refrains echoed through the years.
Marcy worked long hours for a pittance, and she carried too much sadness to visit the beach for any longer than a couple of heartbroken minutes a season. She knew the beach only invited envy as she watched thin, tan swimsuited lovers holding hands at the water’s edge.
Still, Marcy lived with Ralph who didn’t care what she looked like. Ralph said, “Goodbye, sweetheart” as Marcy left for work each morning, and greeted her cheerfully with “Hello, darling” every evening. After work, Marcy made them dinner and told Ralph all the office gossip. Ralph listened attentively. After Marcy did the dishes they watched air-conditioned television together. If Marcy was trapped in Florida, at least she had Ralph.
Last Thursday was a record-breaking 113 degrees with just as much humidity. Even the tried-and-true locals slogged through the boiling liquid air. Marcy returned home after stopping at the grocery store. She was overdressed and under-hydrated. Exhausted. As Ralph said, “Hello, darling,” Marcy collapsed.
Four days later, the police found Marcy, along with the ice cream melted out of the grocery sack, on the floor. Ralph, with his cuttlebone and nearly depleted fruit and seed mix, greeted them from his cage, “Hello, darling.”
Laura Johnson is a poet in Eastern Iowa who is a founding co-editor of the journal Backchannels. Laura is an MFA candidate at the University of New Orleans and is a graduate (BA, MA) of the University of Iowa. Laura’s work has appeared in Goat’s Milk Magazine, Thimble Literary Magazine, Prompt Press, and Wild Roof Journal, among others. Laura’s chapbook, Memento Vivere (Cabin Bear Books), is available at laurajohnsonwriter.com and wherever you buy books. Follow her on Facebook at Laura Johnson, Writer or on Instagram @laurajohnsonwriter.