Heartache

Sometimes a dangerous slice-of-life like stepping off a board-game into a frantic lagoon drags the truth from the bathroom, where it has been hiding. “Do whatever you like to improve the situation, and—good luck,” it added, like a barber adding an extra plop of lather to a stupefied customer’s face. “When they let you out I’ll be waiting for you.” It had been that way ever since a girl with braids teased him about getting too short. Yeah, and I’ll bet they have places for people like you too. Trouble is, I don’t know of any. The years whirled quickly by, an upward spiral toward what ghastly ascendency? He didn’t know. He cried. One November the police chief came calling. He had secretly been collecting all the bright kids in the universe, popping them into a big bag which he lugged home with him. No one was too sure what happened after that. The kids were past caring; they had the run of the house after all. Was it so much better outside? Snow lashed the windowpanes as though punishing them for having the property of being seen through. The little town grew quieter. No one missed the kids. They had been too bright for that to happen. Night sprang out of the dense cold like an infuriated ocelot with her cub that someone had been trying to steal, or so it pretended. The frightened townspeople sped away. There was no longer any room on the sidewalk for anything but “v’s” drawn in pink chalk, the way a child draws a seagull. Down at the tavern the neon glowed a comforting red. “All beer on tap,” it said, and “Booths for Ladies.”