I watch Lily in the mirrored center of the carousel. She giggles with each rise and fall of her red horse. Rick stayed home, said he had paperwork to do. He’s fucking his secretary.
Mr. Schmanski, in 12F, has a mirrored evil eye on his front door. I tell him the mirror negates the power of the evil eye, but he shrugs me off. He wears a nutmeg-colored cardigan with elbow patches to keep the chill away. I’m hungry for tomato soup.
The building across the street wears a mask of scaffolding. Bronzed and gritty, it clanks and wheezes in the afternoon wind. Lily and I share a box of popcorn, a snow cone. Maybe if I grow my hair long, like his secretary’s, Rick will look at me again.
The wind carries smells of cinnamon and warm bread. If I could drown myself in a bakery, I would. Buckled in her stroller, Lily finishes the snow cone. Sticky red syrup runs down her arm and gives her a clown mouth. I zip Lily’s jacket and beg winter to stay away.
My parents gave us an old-fashioned secretary. It’s made of mahogany and has a roll top. It hides stacks of outdated magazines. I worry our bathroom mirror is defective. Each morning it takes an hour for the fog to dissipate from it. Sometimes I wipe away only enough space for my eyes and pretend I am someone else.
On Broadway I push Lily into a bead store. She’s mesmerized by the glittery colors. When we leave, I wear a scarf of beads, and my arms are covered with shiny baubles. I feel desirable again. One of the hidden magazines is filled with finish-in-a-weekend quilt patterns. I bought material to make a quilt for Lily’s bed the summer she was born.
Long days and emergency meetings have become the norm for Rick. He’s taken to doing his own laundry. Around the corner is a street juggler. His face is painted, and he wears red pants and a striped shirt. I imagine the glory of being tossed into the air and never coming back.
Lots of eateries along Broome Street offer outside dining. Festive tablecloths blanket the tables, like quilts. I watch a young couple share cups of soup and chocolate. Maybe if I drizzled myself with chocolate, Rick would lick me, wash me again.
For our fifth anniversary, I wear a shiny red dress that hugs my curves. At dinner we talk about football, the coming sleet, things we need from the market. Our waitress has plump breasts and long hair. I square my shoulders and order cherry cobbler a la mode.
Our apartment is squeaky clean. Rick insists. Sometimes I’m tempted to throw magazines and toys and dishes. I stop to look at myself in the mirror above the couch. I am real. Rick stays up, says he has paperwork to do. I listen for the soft click of the front door.
Mitzi McMahon lives near Lake Michigan in Racine, WI. Her work has appeared in several literary journals, including The Rockford Review, Temenos, Right Hand Pointing, and Bryant Literary Review. She blogs at mitzimcmahon-lifeinwisconsin.blogspot.com.
Is this a novel in the making? Sounds like to me.