Good at Hiding
The
day after my first love dies I wake alone after a night of tears. My eyes flash
open as my foot lands on a kleenex, soft and still wet. I shove my feet into
slippers then bend down, searching until I think I've found them all. It takes
two hands. Bunched together, compacted, I take them to the trash. I sigh, unburdened. In the bedroom, I make sure none
are left. The empty tissue box is still on my husband's side of the bed, sideways. I throw that out too and replace it. He'll be back home later today.
American Temp
I
struggle with getting my boss's Gaelic name right whenever I have to answer the
phone but it's so Irish, longer and thicker than rashers, with syllables harder
to chew than the pig's blood hockey pucks they call black pudding. But it comes
out different each time. The office lady shakes her head, says I'm not needed,
go leave early. I board my bus and from the upper deck see wild horses roaming
apartment building carparks, imagine fairies traveling alongside the Liffey,
the magic of Dublin. Only none to be found at the office, where the next day
I'm fired.
Irish Breakfast
Cars come from the right here! I'm almost hit stumbling across Lord
Edward Street in first light. A glass door promising Full Irish Breakfast opens
with a shove. Runny tomato and scrambled eggs jumbled against soggy ham, toast,
two pucks of pudding on a crazed plate. I poke them with the oversized fork as
my eyes fall to the littered floor. I exhale, eat alternating bits of egg and
toast, mashing tomato, pushing it towards the pudding, sipping dank tea, glance
over my shoulder outside. I have to check into that hostel soon, figure out
what's next.
Marie Cloutier (she/her) is a writer based near NYC. Her work has appeared in Scribes Micro, Corvus Review, 10x10 Flash Fiction and elsewhere. She is at work on a memoir. Her website is www.mariecloutier.com.