Slow Leak

She mounts the first step up from the driveway, hand on the rail. She forgot to leave the front light on but her aging eyes can see well enough from the neighbors’ lights. Wait, had she locked the car door? She depresses the button on the device in her hand, hears the faint unsatisfying click, pushes the button again, a louder click this time. She brings the device up to her face, hits lock and the click is faint, so it’s locked already, right?

But does she have her phone? She rummages in her purse. She can’t feel it in there. Returning to her car, she hits the unlock button. Good, she had locked it. She gets into the driver’s seat and looks in the console. 

She stares out the windshield a moment, weary, then dumps her purse on the passenger seat, shakes it. The phone lands on the pile and she tucks it back into her purse, then adds her wallet, comb, pack of tissues, lipstick, gum, nail file, clippers, the tiny notepad, pencil and pen, a sales slip, her small address book. 

She needs to enter numbers into her phone if she can remember how her grandson said to do it. Every number but Rhonda’s, although yes, she will add that too, and call Jeff, ask how his health has been, although she never cared much for Rhonda’s husband. A pity her friend went first. Up to a year ago, she was full of fun.

Damn, she meant to stop at the gas station. Her son had that gadget to measure air in the tire, but no air pump. Probably a slow leak, he said. But doesn’t that mean she needs a new tire? And which tire was it? She’ll call her son tomorrow, or hell, just look at the tires. It ought to be obvious. Or maybe she will call, talk to the kids if they’ll get on the phone. No, too soon. She has just seen them, only about five minutes before they went to their rooms. 

She rocks herself out of the car, straightens her skirt. Now where are her keys? She leans in and bumps her head on the door frame, sucks her teeth, plucks the keys off the dash. Standing straight, she swipes at her hair that has fallen forward, catching the key ring in a curl. She deep breathes and slowly untangles it. She would get her hair cut really short, but her husband likes it longer. Liked it. Still, when she visits him, she does not want to look different, unfamiliar. He still has some recognition. He seems to know her even if he can’t say who she is.

With the car door closed, she starts up the steps. Did she lock the car? She depresses that doodad thing. A faint click, so unsatisfying. She hits the other button, likes that sound better, being clearer and sharper. She depresses the buttons one after the other, louder click, softer click, louder click, softer click. She decides the final louder click locks.

She wishes she was in bed, but now she can’t recall if she took her umbrella when she left the house. Nearly at her front door, she looks up into the sky. No stars.

There’s a light on her phone, but she can’t remember how to turn it on. She must not fall. Better to live here alone than take one of her grandsons’ bedrooms. They would resent her. It simply cannot happen.

She turns around, looks at the car, shakes her head, turns toward the three remaining steps to the stoop, turns toward the car. She starts to walk down, hating to leave the umbrella in there in case she needs it in the morning. She presses a button, but no click. She’s too far away. Does she have a fresh battery? She walks down farther, testing as she goes, pressing the button with her thumb until she hears a click. She stands a while locking, unlocking, locking, unlocking, matching rhythm to the labored pulse in her throat.

We Wear Suits

They are gray and tailored. We look professional. We look expensive. The women have gray purses, the men, gray wallets. Our shoes match, and our hair. Our teeth are white and straight. I wore braces for a year, but no one here knows this.

We never hurry when walking between our cubicles to speak to one another. We enunciate. We are smart and know where jokes are going, so we don’t need to finish telling them. I used to laugh. Then I smiled. More recently, I grimace.

The curtains are kept closed. I opened them once. I learned that beyond is ripe color. I wonder if our eyes are a betrayal. None are gray. 

I look into the other’s faces. I drop a pencil. No one reacts. I drop a stapler. One person nearby flinches, doesn’t look.

Tomorrow, when I deliver a document, I will touch someone’s hand.

Lavina Blossom is a visual artist and writer. She grew up in rural Michigan and now lives in Southern California. She has written articles on the writing process for the Inlandia Institute and was a poetry editor for the Inlandia Institute’s online journal. Her poems have appeared in various publications, including 3Elements Review, The Paris Review, Poemeleon, Common Ground Review, Gyroscope Review, and Ekphrastic Review.