C4 antho - Chamber Four

~20~ The Chamber Four Fiction Anthology
She is laughing inside his car. They are listening to terrible
music, Coldplay even, and as they drive away Chris Martin’s
cocky vocals hop through the yard and smack me in the face. I
pass out and dream of yellow couches being shredded by
Prius-sized cheese graters. When I wake up in the morning,
sunlight pushes in the window and hits the crushed beer cans
like broken glass. It’s my worst nightmare: Liz Phair did not
come home last night.
I look at her side of the bed. I sniff her pillow. It smells
like Liz Phair when she has not showered in a day. The smell
is my favorite. It tickles up my nose and pours back down out
my eyes. I let it happen. I realize it’s strange how I have not
cried in all these months. I did not even cry when my bone
was sticking out of my arm. Not when Johnny had to be put
to sleep because he swallowed a bottle of Liz Phair’s expensive
cologne, not when Shirley MacLaine died in that movie.
I always felt strong and brave. But why? I sit up, sniffling. I
realize something. The words, like, hit me in the face. I grab
the closest piece of paper―a 7-11 receipt―and I scribble
them down. I use Liz Phair’s Cover Girl Outlast eyeliner. The
paper surrenders in my hands, wilts against the power of my
masterpiece.
I have done it. I have written The Most Perfect Sentence.
Outside, at this moment, the clouds submit to sun and
the yellow beams of it course through the windowpane, highlighting
everything in the room―our bed, pillows, stacks of
records―but mostly the sacred seven words I hold in my
hands.
I read the sentence out loud, slowly at first. The particles
in the sunbeams dance like glitter. I read it again. My tongue
and lips unite in a way that is most perfect, almost as holy as
a Liz Phair kiss. I have perfected language, and I am not even
drunk. There is only one thing to do. I fold the receipt and