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Authors: Sian Griffiths
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receiving end of her diatribes myself. Her fire never lasted. The love I felt for her moved through my skin, St. Elmo’s fire in the rigging, heating it instantly as a blush. Dawn had a particular brand of charisma.
Jenny muttered, “My husband’s going to kill me when he sees this. He always said riding was a dumb idea.”
I was prepared to let the comment slide. Dawn was not. “It ain’t his call, now, is it?” Dawn’s thin, shrewd face dared Jenny to contradict her. Russ called her “Spitfire” when she got like this, his eyes brimming with love and admiration. I felt it, too. At five foot ten, I was a head taller than either Dawn or Jenny, but I only noticed it around Jenny. Dawn, the shortest of all of us, always seemed to be looking me right in the eye. “You want to ride, then damn it, you ride.”
“It’s his money,” Jenny shot back, her own chin up and eyes flashing, showing there was hope for her.
“Don’t you ever believe that.” Dawn didn’t advise now; she commanded. “You keep his house, you fix his meals. You earned that money. Those are your wages and you’ll spend them as you like. Don’t you let him forget that.” There was now an added edge in Dawn’s voice. We were on the grounds of a fundamental belief.
At the house, Connie helped Jenny from Zip’s back and folded her under her wing, cooing to her like some awkward, over-sized bird. She took off Jenny’s helmet and stroked her hair with a rough, ruddy hand while her own frizzled hair lifted on the breeze. Jenny ate it up, leaning her head on Connie’s broad shoulder.
I ponied Zip to the barn and waited for Dawn to condemn Jenny, but she didn’t say a word. The horses were eating hay in their stalls when Jenny returned to the barn, arm neatly patched. From the tilt of her smile, I guessed Connie had offered a few nips of something “medicinal.” Dawn put her hand on Jenny’s shoulder. “Feeling better?”
“Connie says I owe you all a beer.” Jenny’s voice was bright now. We’d been forgiven.
“Hey, that’s right,” Dawn said. “I always thought that was a raw deal—the one who falls having to buy the round.”
Jenny shrugged, and just that quick, she was one of the gals. “What are y’all doing tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Dawn said. “Eat leftovers and rent a movie?”
They turned to me, eyebrows raised. “Shit,” I said, “same thing I do every night: buy food, watch TV, and contemplate my total lack of social life.”
Jenny tilted her head in triumph. “Then I say we all meet at El Mercado’s at six, Budweiser all around.”
It would be Bud, it was always Bud, but my spirits rose in response to Jenny’s. The beer was an olive branch not to be turned down.
“Good,” Jenny said, seeming to grow a little taller. “That’s settled.” She smiled serenely when a new thought set her eyes dancing. “Hey, Dawn, I’ll get to meet your Russ, and y’all will meet my Dave.”
“Dave?” I asked.
“My husband.”
A Story to Regret
T he Count of Monte Cristo lay on top of the television. I flipped through its soft pages, wondering why I kept it. Each page wore the history of its reading. Page 146 had a grease stain. Perhaps Dave had set a cruller there, a temporary bookmark, while he got a fresh cup of coffee. Page 352 was flecked with blood—a paper-cut. All were browned at the edges where the oils of his palms had permeated the paper’s fiber. I, too, was marked. Nothing obvious, nothing you’d notice on the surface, but there was something essential from him that I’d absorbed. I was browned and softened and stained.
I put the book back and told myself that it wasn’t him, that Dave was a common name.
I tried to imagine him with her. Did the stubble of his five o’clock shadow rub Jenny’s cheek raw when he kissed and kissed her? Did his one hand slide over her hip as the other clasped her neck? Could he feel that same passion for her? Could he love this woman? I shook
Jenny muttered, “My husband’s going to kill me when he sees this. He always said riding was a dumb idea.”
I was prepared to let the comment slide. Dawn was not. “It ain’t his call, now, is it?” Dawn’s thin, shrewd face dared Jenny to contradict her. Russ called her “Spitfire” when she got like this, his eyes brimming with love and admiration. I felt it, too. At five foot ten, I was a head taller than either Dawn or Jenny, but I only noticed it around Jenny. Dawn, the shortest of all of us, always seemed to be looking me right in the eye. “You want to ride, then damn it, you ride.”
“It’s his money,” Jenny shot back, her own chin up and eyes flashing, showing there was hope for her.
“Don’t you ever believe that.” Dawn didn’t advise now; she commanded. “You keep his house, you fix his meals. You earned that money. Those are your wages and you’ll spend them as you like. Don’t you let him forget that.” There was now an added edge in Dawn’s voice. We were on the grounds of a fundamental belief.
At the house, Connie helped Jenny from Zip’s back and folded her under her wing, cooing to her like some awkward, over-sized bird. She took off Jenny’s helmet and stroked her hair with a rough, ruddy hand while her own frizzled hair lifted on the breeze. Jenny ate it up, leaning her head on Connie’s broad shoulder.
I ponied Zip to the barn and waited for Dawn to condemn Jenny, but she didn’t say a word. The horses were eating hay in their stalls when Jenny returned to the barn, arm neatly patched. From the tilt of her smile, I guessed Connie had offered a few nips of something “medicinal.” Dawn put her hand on Jenny’s shoulder. “Feeling better?”
“Connie says I owe you all a beer.” Jenny’s voice was bright now. We’d been forgiven.
“Hey, that’s right,” Dawn said. “I always thought that was a raw deal—the one who falls having to buy the round.”
Jenny shrugged, and just that quick, she was one of the gals. “What are y’all doing tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Dawn said. “Eat leftovers and rent a movie?”
They turned to me, eyebrows raised. “Shit,” I said, “same thing I do every night: buy food, watch TV, and contemplate my total lack of social life.”
Jenny tilted her head in triumph. “Then I say we all meet at El Mercado’s at six, Budweiser all around.”
It would be Bud, it was always Bud, but my spirits rose in response to Jenny’s. The beer was an olive branch not to be turned down.
“Good,” Jenny said, seeming to grow a little taller. “That’s settled.” She smiled serenely when a new thought set her eyes dancing. “Hey, Dawn, I’ll get to meet your Russ, and y’all will meet my Dave.”
“Dave?” I asked.
“My husband.”
A Story to Regret
T he Count of Monte Cristo lay on top of the television. I flipped through its soft pages, wondering why I kept it. Each page wore the history of its reading. Page 146 had a grease stain. Perhaps Dave had set a cruller there, a temporary bookmark, while he got a fresh cup of coffee. Page 352 was flecked with blood—a paper-cut. All were browned at the edges where the oils of his palms had permeated the paper’s fiber. I, too, was marked. Nothing obvious, nothing you’d notice on the surface, but there was something essential from him that I’d absorbed. I was browned and softened and stained.
I put the book back and told myself that it wasn’t him, that Dave was a common name.
I tried to imagine him with her. Did the stubble of his five o’clock shadow rub Jenny’s cheek raw when he kissed and kissed her? Did his one hand slide over her hip as the other clasped her neck? Could he feel that same passion for her? Could he love this woman? I shook
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