HOUSESITTER NEEDED
It was supposed to be fun, this going away on holiday. Really not a holiday but we had to get out of the apartment before I turned her into a vibrant wall covering or she converted me into a plant, trimmed badly. She used to have fun coaxing flowers from a pot of dirt but she tore the last orchid out and threw it off the balcony. It fell like a swift snowflake or bird, post six-shot and the orchid lodged itself in the intake grill of an air conditioner unit. Not ours, the one servicing the lap pool of that couple who own the entire west wing. It will, I’m sure, spread its roots into the coils as its viney loveliness envelopes the atrium, the pool and the sleeping ex-titan of industry. Orchids are a parasite, you know.
Preferable to yeast, she said and by that she means my home brewing experiment. Under the sink I have a plastic jug which is on its way to becoming a headache. She said I should name it Cat Litter Ale but that’s unkind. Stop talking like Craig Ferguson, she said, you’re not even Scottish. No, but my drink is. Hah, it’s not. That’s bourbon. Which is why hobbies should be enjoyed in the darkened bathroom, alone. Except the news forecast a record-breaking snow so she lay her skis on the table and began to scrape them with a chef’s knife. I went to the balcony every few minutes for a smoke and to look for snow until the rain ended.
Let’s go west, let’s go to the mountains. Unbelievably the planes are still flying, cabs still circle the airport like dogs chasing regulated tails. They have changed the endless repeated message about not waiting at the curb to grammatically incorrect demands about face coverings. To sit on a plane, and wear mask, face shield, and gloves took away the last morsel of joy in travel. Her face shield keeps fogging up and my mask tastes like something lodged in the drain.
In Salt Lake City we ditched our masks. In the shuttle she puts on lipstick, a color called Crime of Passion. It matches my jacket. We’ll probably get arrested, I say. Not here, she answered. Mormons. Which is why it’s hard to find a decent bar at the top of the mountain. At the next table two college women stare into their phones, each a blond Texas shootout over squatter’s rights. I’m taking another run, my wife says. I raise my glass to the ski lift, chairs which clatter like parrots. Gravity, I know. It’s all downhill from here.
Bio: Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. A University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire alumnus, recent credits include: Gyroscope Review, 2River, Sheila-Na-Gig, GRIFFEL, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Visit him at: zolothstephenswriters.com