MothSav
What are words
It had been two hundred and thirty-six days since Laurence Billings became a grown up orphan. She stood in front of a wall calendar, each page littered with X’s through each day since. Some of them were drawn hastily, others shaky and brittle. A few were done in hot pink highlighter; a few dates blacked out completely when the grief swallowed Laurie whole.
Despite the days ticking by, the pain had not faded. Danica’s back office of Rack ‘Em Up was still called as such. It wasn’t Laurie’s, no matter how many hours she had spent in there. The wall calendar itself was still marked with Danica’s meticulous planning through the year. Bulk order cauliflower. Nemanja’s birthday. Save chicken toy for Curt. Quarterly invoice.
Laurie abruptly glanced back at the computer screen. It still choked through booting up, despite the minutes she had allowed it to process. Deeming it something her attention didn’t need to monitor, Laurie stood up and brushed off her faded jeans. The chicken shirt she wore bagged around her middle when she tied a short waist apron around herself, doubling the tie string back to the front. She had fit it better last year, Laurie noted. She had fit it better before stress and grief encompassed her appetite, greedily taking control of it.
Glasses clinked beside the bar. Damp little rings marked the spots where patrons had abandoned beers and stiff drinks. Gloria swiped a rag over them, chipping red nail polish over the short nails of her hands. She glanced up hopefully when she spotted a tall head of blonde over the top of the glasses stacked on the bar shelf.
“Lars!”
Gloria’s cheerful greeting betrayed her actions. She wound up with the rag bunched like a softball, throwing it in Laurie’s direction. It splayed open and made a wet ‘thwop’ as it struck Laurie over the face, her startled gasp garbled by sopping fabric. She staggered back, prompting a smothered laugh from Gloria.
The tray table behind Laurie provided no support when she leaned back into it. It buckled, catching her leg and sending both bar owner and itself onto the floor. Gloria’s laughter became belly laughs, her tan stomach clutched as she ducked over to collect herself. The chicken shirt was tied beneath her chest, her skinny jeans belted at her hips but torn at the knees. The shirt itself was more worn out than the rest; chicken emblem flaking like her nail polish, sleeves frayed. Someone long ago had sharpied a ‘D.B.’ onto the back to identify its owner, but it had clearly been passed down instead.
Laurie sat up on the floor, winding up and chucking the rag back towards the bar. It caught the top of a bottle of tequila and spun twice, resting in a lump at the base of it. Laurie roared out her injustice, tone even but frustration for her little sister bubbling beneath it. “We open in ten, stop screwing around!”
Day two hundred and thirty-six. Only luck would let them cross it off the calendar and proceed into day two hundred and thirty-seven.
Despite the days ticking by, the pain had not faded. Danica’s back office of Rack ‘Em Up was still called as such. It wasn’t Laurie’s, no matter how many hours she had spent in there. The wall calendar itself was still marked with Danica’s meticulous planning through the year. Bulk order cauliflower. Nemanja’s birthday. Save chicken toy for Curt. Quarterly invoice.
Laurie abruptly glanced back at the computer screen. It still choked through booting up, despite the minutes she had allowed it to process. Deeming it something her attention didn’t need to monitor, Laurie stood up and brushed off her faded jeans. The chicken shirt she wore bagged around her middle when she tied a short waist apron around herself, doubling the tie string back to the front. She had fit it better last year, Laurie noted. She had fit it better before stress and grief encompassed her appetite, greedily taking control of it.
Glasses clinked beside the bar. Damp little rings marked the spots where patrons had abandoned beers and stiff drinks. Gloria swiped a rag over them, chipping red nail polish over the short nails of her hands. She glanced up hopefully when she spotted a tall head of blonde over the top of the glasses stacked on the bar shelf.
“Lars!”
Gloria’s cheerful greeting betrayed her actions. She wound up with the rag bunched like a softball, throwing it in Laurie’s direction. It splayed open and made a wet ‘thwop’ as it struck Laurie over the face, her startled gasp garbled by sopping fabric. She staggered back, prompting a smothered laugh from Gloria.
The tray table behind Laurie provided no support when she leaned back into it. It buckled, catching her leg and sending both bar owner and itself onto the floor. Gloria’s laughter became belly laughs, her tan stomach clutched as she ducked over to collect herself. The chicken shirt was tied beneath her chest, her skinny jeans belted at her hips but torn at the knees. The shirt itself was more worn out than the rest; chicken emblem flaking like her nail polish, sleeves frayed. Someone long ago had sharpied a ‘D.B.’ onto the back to identify its owner, but it had clearly been passed down instead.
Laurie sat up on the floor, winding up and chucking the rag back towards the bar. It caught the top of a bottle of tequila and spun twice, resting in a lump at the base of it. Laurie roared out her injustice, tone even but frustration for her little sister bubbling beneath it. “We open in ten, stop screwing around!”
Day two hundred and thirty-six. Only luck would let them cross it off the calendar and proceed into day two hundred and thirty-seven.