Damsel in the Red Dress

Oopsies

"Please just fit," I plead with the groceries as I ironically try to sandwich a loaf of bread between two bottles of milk.

I really should have put the back seats down before I went into the store - now, with my arms weighed down by fifty pounds of bottles and breads and frozens, this unappetizing new provision seems like it'll be the best I can manage.

I'm definitely not getting anything but crumbs out of this loaf. I guess it's as good a time as ever to ask Tia Maria for that bread pudding recipe.

I can't believe I haven't bought her Mother's Day present yet, normally I have that picked out by New Year.

This year - these two decade-long months that we call 2024 - have been way too hectic.

I slam the trunk shut and imagine I can hear the last whole pieces of bread exploding into a thousand pieces as the plastic crinkles under the pressure.

You know what, that's fine. Crumbs are just fine.

I'm sliding into the front seat, preparing to bang my forehead on the steering wheel when my phone starts to ring in the passenger's seat.

In retrospect, I could have put the bags right there.

The rattlesnake noise sounds again, and with a sigh I reach out half-heartedly to grab the cell off of the cracked faux leather cushion, though I keep leaning on the steering wheel, my hair draping around it on all sides like a deep-conditioned shroud.

"Hey you," the text reads, "What do you wanna get for dinner?"

"I don't know, you can pick."

"Don't be one of those women," I can almost hear his laughter.

"What do you want me to say when I legitimately don't know?"

"Indian food."

I roll my eyes so far back I think I can see the inside of my skull.

My Mr. Moon could eat samosas and palak paneer for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day for the rest of his life without one word of complaint, but he knows good and well that I can't stand anything spicy.

"Fine," I reply lazily, "Indian it is then. Should I come pick you up with the van?"

The pause is too long. Something awkward and defensive in my psyche feels the need to add-

"There isn't any space to put the chair in your hotrod..."

"Yeah. Yeah..." it comes through like a sigh, "That'll be fine, thanks."

I wish there was something else to say - there oughta be - something that would make him feel better as I stare dumbly into the silence waiting for some voice in the back of my head to give me some kind of a queue. But there are just crickets...

I know he hates the idea of me chauffeuring him everywhere, but I'm not sure what else we're supposed to do unless he wants to take the train.

It seems impossible to talk to him without bringing up something that will remind him of his injury in some way or another - but it feels like shoving his head down into the cage every time he manages to peek through the bars-

I hit the steering wheel with my palm like some sort of Kungfu movie death strike, angrier than I can account for - with myself and with this life we're stuck living.

I pull into my driveway seeing red - no - seeing this dizzy sort of purply-blue-gray - and snatch the grocery bags out of the car with such a violence that one of the 'extra-heavy-duty' plastic handles snaps, pouring the foodstuffs out onto the pavement.