Margie returned from the park worn and almost as wretched as she had been the day before, which she had believed at the time to be the worst day of her life. Months below, her marriage had gone up in smoke. She had walked away from Harry without a dollar. That was their agreement. Don’t hang on, no hang ups. The divorce was finalized in the office of a man with cigar stench. A sickly bird teetered on the sill outside the window. That was noon. By two, she had discovered that Harry had not only moved on to another woman, but that they had set their wedding for whatever day Harry’s union with Margie officially dissolved. She had slept fitfully, waking to drink, and woken early the next morning. The new start she had conceptualized pushed her to the park. The sun made the air limpid. A man there was standing in the sandbox, ranting loudly on the phone. “I must tell you, Terhune,” he said, “that you will not have my countenance. You are a fool.” The man on the other end must have parried briskly. The man’s face colored beet red. He pointed at Margie. “Are you laughing at me?” he said. She was. He kicked sand. “Everyone is falling away from me,” he said. Her hand flew to her mouth. The previous night, four gins in, she had said the exact same thing. The light of the sun went out. Who was she? The man kicked sand again and went running around the perimeter of the sandbox, his hands behind his back. “We are the same,” he said to her. Had he heard her thoughts? She cursed at him, damned him to hell, told the devil to take him, though she did not know his name. Then she went home to no Harry at all.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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