EARRING
I wake up an ear.
I wonder how to stretch. Mom comes in; pulls up the shades and gives me her usual wake-up call.
“Rise and shine,” she says.
“You look like you could use a good breakfast.”
She seems to enjoy spoon feeding me Farina, and is remarkably unagitated this morning, except when the school bus honks louder than usual. “You are never ready in time, “ she says as she ushers me out the door.
School is uneventful in the way February has with curricula. The teacher drones on about the lives of Lincoln and Washington while everyone doodles hearts.
When I arrive home, in that twilight time before dinner, Mom pours tea.
“Oh, your sister is driving me crazy,” she says. “Today, you know what she did?”
She proceeds to the details:
Where exactly in the gutter she found her; how snarled was her hair; how and with what intensity she stank; how much money it cost to send her on her way.
She pours another cup of tea as she moves from the antics of my elder sibling to an aggravating neighbor. I grab the teaspoon belonging to the sugar bowl and drive it deep into my ear.
A blessed silence ensues.
I turn away. My diamond stud catches the day’s last rays of sunlight.
My mother’s lips continue to move:
(sotto voce)
“You. Never. Listen.”
LIPSTICK
My mother and I hike up our skirts.
The orange light from the street lamp turns our matching blue garters the color of slush.
The first car to drive by slams on the brakes. The driver can't take his eyes off the pair of gams we display. He revs his engine.
A second car gets a load, but can't stop in time. He slams into the first guy.
The first guy gets pissed; gets out; and bangs on the second guy's plate glass. He doesn't know the sucker's already dead. I shut my eyes as he continues to pound on the blood-splattered window.
My mother pokes me in the ribs. Points to his hands. “Dirty fingernails,” she says. “Let's get out of here.”
We beat it home on rickety high-heels. We make it back before the sound of sirens hit the streets. We wash off our make-up in the kitchen sink. The liquid flesh coats last night's linguine still stuck in the drain.
A huge pot of spaghetti sauce simmers on the stove. It takes my mother two hands to stir it. The red liquid inside reminds me of...something.
“Here, taste,” she says.
She keeps ahold of the spoon, cupping one hand beneath to catch any drips. I blow on the sauce. My mother taps her high heel impatiently.
I take a sip.
Before I can lick my lips, my mother says,
“Hmmm. That color looks good on you.”