Sara

Rufus Shanks was 76 years old and hadn’t received a single visitor in the fifteen years he’d resided in his 6x4 bungalow. Every morning, as he hobbled to the mirror, he summarized that nothing had changed overnight. Quilt-splattered sunspots decorated his boastful cheeks, his eyebrows (as lovers) ached for mutual touch, and his forehead could be strummed like a guitar. His breath still stunk of pickles and the holes on his shirt continued to reproduce. In conclusion, his life was utterly devoid of variety. 

Rufus was simple. He considered pennies as pennies and dimes as dimes. Interactions were sparse. He only ever saw one other person. Sarah (or at least that’s what her name tag said), a conspiracy of a woman who should have been born a man. She had broad shoulders laced with pepper, like an egg-salad that was hastily rushed to the plate. Always sweaty, the pincers of her bra restrained a bubble of fat. As far as Rufus was concerned, she wasn’t even worth the spare rusts of copper needed to produce a coin. 

But perhaps the feeling was mutual as she habitually kept her vocab to a single word. What it was couldn’t be deciphered, his hearing aids had wandered off with a bindle decades earlier. (Traitorous, feeble things.) Although Suri’s mouth was hibernating, her hands were constantly on the move, like swans across a river, twirling, spinning, and creating ripples in his stomach. It was nauseating and Rufus had to close his eyes.

Besides her appearance, Susan was also a horrible cook. Now, Rufus was not a picky man (let that be known). Despite rotating around the same, common ingredients, she’d never been able to make it right. The mushroom soup was salted to perfection, so much so, he swallowed a tablespoon of lung cancer every time it was served. The oranges were peeled halfway, nail indents creeping up the side like a towering ladder of disappointment. His water, because it was only ever water, clinked without the presence of ice. He’d take three sips (never more than that) and wish desperately for a vacation. Anywhere but here, anywhere but home..

Although he’d like to pretend that things were in order, there was always something not quite right. No, rather...Sammy wasn’t right. With three flutters of an eyelash, she’d be standing there perfectly still one second, only to be replaced by an empty glass in the next. No more pivoting fingers or crippled lips. Rufus would shakily scratch his ear, the embers in the fireplace crackling alongside the vibrations in his outer cornea. He’d sit there, a bird's nest of rotting papers on the kitchen floor, a noose around his bulging gut. Staring, staring, and staring; agitation dropping a couple of fire ants on his thighs, forcing him to jostle them like a beheaded worm. 

Fortunately, this feeling was fleeting and never longer than an hour. He’d refill his water and Stella would be back in the corner, a block of bitter ginger. Complacent, horrendous at cooking, and tased at the joints.  

Whenever she put him to bed at night, her lips would part like a hummingbird’s wings. 

Open. Close. Open. Close. 

It dried his throat and severed his patience. He turned to the wall, refusing to look behind, and focused intently on the charred hangers. How a woman like that got hired, he couldn’t say. She clearly had friends in higher places. As he did thirty other times a day, Rufus shut his eyes and dreamed of a better place. Sparkling seas, a child’s laughter, and a lady that didn’t carry the scent of burnt pork. 

Things progressed in slow motion. Sadie was an ever-present figure by his side and though he made protests to the retirement agency, they’d never give him another. In fact, the dragging, mind-numbing pause was quickly becoming a familiar companion. He continued to eat unappetizing meals and drank water straight from the tap. It became a science, the way life was so predictable, like rolling dust mites under a scorching desert sun. 

8AM, brisk shave by the sink. 830AM, a bacon hamburger, and water. 9AM, yoga, and exercise. 915AM, more rehydrating water. 130pm, light nap with a baseball game playing in the background. Sonia preferred the news channel so to spite her, he always watched sports. As expected, she never complained and he’d chortle silently while swirling the straw in his cup. 6pm, meatloaf, and mushroom soup, meant to cleanse the palate with more garbage. After that, everything sort of blended together, like a harmonious set of jagged blocks working towards a goal of completion. 

It all came to a head on the twenty-fourth of October, 2003. Nothing particularly stood out beforehand. Rufus was still Rufus and Shirley was still Shirley. Pennies were still pennies and dimes were still dimes. Sitting down for breakfast that morning, with droplets of grease trickling down the charred beef, he realized that Shirley was missing. She was not in her usual spot, by the obtuse, groaning pantry. No matter how much he waited or chewed, she didn’t appear. It was unsettling and different, two very naughty words. He stumbled over to the phone, ready to place a complaint to the company. First, they’d saddled him with an incompetent employee and now they’d left him without anyone at all? His knees popped in spurts, like small fireworks after a Giants game. Dialing the number he knew by heart, his molars ground, sharpening like a rumbling tidal wave. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

“Where is Shirley? Morons, the whole lot! Not one brain cell!”

In typical Rufus format, he berated the operator to tears. The other side was silent for way too long before he finally decided to hang up the phone, dissatisfied with their service but pleased at the number of verbal insults he’d managed to squeeze in. He huffed before depositing himself into his favorite chair, anguished creaking bouncing around the living room, ash drifting from the seat like sunflower seeds. 

The throb in his temples was back and maybe for good. It lingered in the air every time he breathed, swirling like a cocoon around his lungs. Before he knew it, gluttonous tears were parading down his face (tooting their devil horns), sinking into the folds of his chin, absorbed by quick-sand and grief. 

“A..ah..ah.”

Rufus had never felt as lonely as he did then. However, he could not understand why and as a simple man, linked it towards Shirley’s blatant abandonment. (Blasted female). 

All of a sudden, like a spark of smoke, he’d realized that he hadn’t drunk anything at all. That was no good, terribly so. Straying away from the path of normalcy resulted in unknown factors and elements that couldn’t be controlled, such as throwing a red sock in the wash or leaving a candlelit by the curtains. He stood up, his shackled feet wobbling into the kitchens, heading straight for the drawer. As he filled up a cup with water, he glanced to the left and saw a faded photograph of a man, woman, and child. The corners were decaying, dark spatters of iron spreading across like cancer. He spared it no more than 2 seconds of a glance and wondered why Shirley had left it there. (Idiot). 

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. 

The creak of a door rang out. Hesitantly, he flipped around, and yes, finally. She’d arrived. A bag of mushrooms in one hand and a soot of blue on her lips. Alas, only shopping and hadn’t quit. 

Sharon. Complacent, horrendous at cooking, and tased at the joints.