Close to you by Marilynn M. Wilkins
Mothers’ nineteen-seventy’s version of time out consisted of thirty minutes under the bed in the middle bedroom. Six of us, crammed like sardines beneath the brass bed, sweat pouring from every pore, waiting for time to pass. Sometimes we suspected she cheated and tacked an extra fifteen minutes onto our sentence. She sat in the kitchen, sipped iced tea and listened to the radio, turned up a notch or two.
Funny how the simplest of events can cause severe maladjustments in one’s life. I learned to identify people by their shoes and squeaks of the hardwood floors, a skill that contributed to my raging shoe fetish later in life. Looking for a way out of my punishment I also started eating huge portions at meals so I could not squeeze under the bed.
Now, weighing in at a rotund two hundred twenty pounds at age thirty-two, I am enthralled with Harvey’s St. Marten’s sandals he has worn to work for our company picnic beginning at straight up five o’clock today. Our company did not get voted one of the top ten places in the USA to work by accident. Our CEO sees to it we get plenty of perks in the form of on-site babysitting and recreation paid for out of company funds.
Harvey’s sandals look new and I’m wondering if he’ll trip on the grass when we play touch football at the park. In a way, I hope he does, so I can extend my well-manicured hand to him and pull him up forcefully, so forcefully that he will tip over my way and I can draw him close into my motherly hug I am so well noted for. If ever there was a guy who needed to be rescued, it’s Harvey. No car (he takes the subway), child support out the kazoo and he’s losing his hair.
Just now, my eyes wandered over to Sam’s sensible brogans. Having been polished at least hundreds of times, they look so comfortable. But, he reads Scientific American in the john every morning. I’ve seen him take it in there. Forget it.
The new guy in our office just passed my desk wearing a pair of one-hundred dollar tennis shoes. If you’ll excuse me, I have to follow him. I love the squeaking sound on the tile. Only a sports guy does that for me.
Marilynn lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas. Her work is archived on-line at Laura Hird, Bewildering Stories, Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, Long Story Short, Skive Magazine and others.
