---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ ISBN# issue/book “Reptile Lust” cc&d, v304 (the December 2020 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Roll the Bones the cc&d Sep.-Dec. 2020 magazine issues collection book		get the 424 page Sep.Dec. 2020 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Four Thousand, Five Hundred Seventeen Dollars and Seventy-Three Cents

Phoenix DeSimone

    “Honey, I’m home.”
    Morgan looked at me and started in on packing again. She was putting the pots and pans into boxes. Big-sized, heavy duty ones that I’d bought from Lowe’s yesterday for $5.63. I wrapped my arms around her waist and started kissing her neck.
    “Fuck off,” she said.
    “I got cab-sav – the good stuff.”
    “I asked you to get wine two hours ago.”
    This was true. I had every intention of walking into Kroger, grabbing a bottle of the best wine I could find for $14 and heading home. There are bars on the way home though. I’d seen Mike’s motorcycle outside of Smiley’s and I figured I’d stop and say hi. I told myself just one beer. Mike ended up making it three beers and two shots. He told me they’d miss me at work that week. I told him to hang in there and walked back out to the truck. I saw the wine on the seat and looked at the radio. I sped the whole way home, but Morgan wouldn’t have thought that made it any better.
    “I’m sorry. Really, I am.”
    Morgan started scrubbing at some pots and pans in the sink. I took a wine opener out and stuck it into the cork. I twisted all the way down and pulled back up.
    “You haven’t packed the wine glasses, have you?”
    Morgan slammed the sponge down into the sink.
    “Do you ever think about anything but drinking?”
    I stepped behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist again. She hung her head and breathed heavily.
    “We need to pack,” she said. “The movers come Saturday.”
    “And it’s Sunday.”
    “And nothing is done.”
    “Baby?”
    “What?” Morgan picked the sponge back up.
    “Have you packed the wine glasses?”
    Morgan pointed to the box that was still open on the floor. I grabbed two wine glasses, took the paper out of them and set them on the island. I poured some cabernet into each one. Morgan untied the apron she wore when she did dishes and set it on the counter. She grabbed her glass and walked off to the living room. The dog chased after her.
    The landlord wanted us out in two weeks and the movers that Morgan’s mom had paid $1,856.87 for were coming on Saturday. Morgan was able to use some of her paid-time-off, and I’d convinced work that there was a death in the family. It was the first vacation I could remember the two of us being on in three years and I figured there were worse things that could happen than enjoying a little vino.
    I walked to the living room after re-corking the bottle. Morgan had turned on HGTV. I could see in the way that she sipped her wine that she didn’t want to be talked to. These were things you learned when you were with someone long enough, and usually they were things you learned to live with. I grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the coffee table and stepped outside. It was ninety-two degrees and humid as hell. I used to smoke inside, but Morgan put an end to that when she started vaping.
    I tilted the wine glass back and let the dry grapes slide past the tickle that had developed in my throat. I’d been smoking two packs a day for the last week. I’d developed a horrible cough that I was telling people was due to the amount of pollen polluting the air. I assume that like most things that exit my mouth, they thought it was bullshit.
     It wasn’t good for me and I knew that, but I also knew it was the only thing that helped. The cab wasn’t helping, and neither were the joints I’d smoke from time to time. The dog pawed at the door wanting to be let out. I pushed the cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and walked in.
    Morgan held her wine glass in her hand. She was staring at the perfect homes and people. I knew deep down she wanted one of those houses – or worse, she wanted me to help her renovate them on one of those tv shows. I placed my wine glass down on the coffee table and when I did the dog hopped up next to Morgan. He must have hit the remote or something, because the tv went black. She huffed and puffed and started searching for the remote.
    “Want to listen to some records?”
    I was on my knees looking through plastic crates. Morgan always wanted me to buy a vinyl record stand, but the cheapest was $157.62, and I had no intention of spending that much.
    “Would be nice to see if the turntable even worked before pack–”
    Morgan stood up and finished her wine. She walked to the kitchen. I left the crate and peered into the kitchen. Morgan had the bottle of cab-sav tilted back. She held it there for what seemed like six seconds before pouring more in her glass. She returned to the living room, found the remote near the foot of the couch and turned on the tv.
    “Okay,” I said.

    I finished off the rest of my glass and walked to the kitchen. I placed the glass on the island and looked at the cab-sav. I knew too much more drinking without food would do me in. I walked to the fridge and swung it open. Water bottles and a carton of milk. There were two tubs of ice cream in the freezer. I walked back to the living room. The dog jumped off the couch and tugged at his leash that hung from the coat rack.
    “I’m going to take him for a walk.”
    Morgan turned up the television.
    Last summer Morgan and I had spent $2,457.65 on off-leash dog training, but she swore up and down he hadn’t learned a thing. I tried to tell her she wouldn’t know, she never walked him, but she swore that had nothing to do with the fact that I wanted the dog in the first place. I’d found him in an ad on Craigslist. She always talked about loving dogs and I thought it would make up for some things. I took a cigarette out and lit it as we turned the corner on Fifth. I closed the pack and stuck it in my shirt pocket. The dog saw a cat on someone’s porch and started tugging at the leash, I pulled back and he still went after it, knowing full well that the collar he wore was going to choke him. A diesel truck drove by, throwing black exhaust fumes, and the dog looked in its direction, letting the cat slip away. I took a left onto Third Avenue and we walked up to Mighty Mart, the closest convenience store. I tied the dog around the trashcan and headed in.
    I grabbed a bag of skittles and two snickers bars and headed for the counter. I placed the candy down. An acne-faced 16-year-old was sitting off in the corner looking at the Redskins game on a tablet. He walked over and started passing the candy under the scanner.
    “Who’s winning?”
    “Who ya think?”
    We both laughed as he put the candy in bags.
    “Let me get two packs of Marlboro menthols.”
    He looked over the cigarette stand and located the green and white pack. The kid passed them under the scanner, and I could tell that he seriously thought about asking for my ID.
    “That’s $13.42”
    “Marlboros aren’t on sale?”
    “Guess not man,” He said looking around for answers.
    “I’ll only get one then.”
    “$8.32”
    The dog was still patiently waiting when I returned outside.
    “Told you not to listen to her,” I said.
    When we got back on to Fifth Street, I could see the dog’s tongue hanging out his mouth. I reached down and patted his head. I looked around. I pulled the leash off. He sat for a moment and wagged his tail. I walked a few steps, and he followed a long side me in stride. We were coming up on the cat again. He saw the cat on the porch, its tail moving back and forth, and darted for it. The cat dashed away, scrambling up a tree. The dog put his front paws on the trunk and howled. I walked over and strapped the leash back on and tugged him the rest of the way home. There would be no treats after this walk.
    HGTV was still blaring when I walked in. The wine bottle was on the coffee table nearly empty. I unhooked the dog and he went barreling to the kitchen. I grabbed the bottle and poured what was left of the cab-sav into my glass. The dog drank from his bowl. I walked back to the living room and turned the television down and laid on the couch. The dog trotted slowly in and laid on the floor. I heard a toilet flush. The dog patted his tail against the floor, making thunderous thumps as Morgan came out of the bathroom. She hung on to the door frame. The glass of wine in her hand was filled to the brim and it spilled as she walked toward the couch. She picked up the bag of skittles off the coffee table and opened them with her teeth. She let a few pieces fall into her hand and tossed them back in her mouth. She took a long gulp from the wine and placed the glass down on the table. Morgan straddled herself around my waist when she got to the couch. She put her hands around my cheeks and pulled herself in close to me, then placed her head against my chest.
    “Want to listen to some records?”
    For a moment I thought of putting up a fight. But there was a real interest in the working-or-not-working-ness of the turntable.
    I searched through the small collection of vinyl I’d been buying on all of her really important trips to goodwill. I took out the Marcy Playground album that I’d found one day for $3.42. I blew dust off and placed it onto the turntable. I pressed play, the record began spinning and the needle dropped. I grabbed my wine off the coffee table, took a sip and turned on the wireless speakers Morgan had bought last Christmas for $87.59. The music started and I pulled out the old pack of cigs and looked in – the doobie was still there. I held the joint between my thumb and pointer and turned back to Morgan. She looked up at me while sipping from her wine and then nodded her head. I thumbed around in my pockets. Morgan finished her glass and walked off to the kitchen. I heard food being poured into the dog’s bowl as I lit the joint. I sprawled out on the floor and Morgan sat down next to me. I passed her the joint and she inhaled while I coughed my lungs out. I’d paid $80 for a quarter a month ago and I was trying my best to make it last until after the move. There was a silence, we could hear the needle trying to make noise out of the grooves, and Morgan returned me the joint. The second track started. “I smell sex and Caaandyy,” Morgan sang. I offered the joint to her and she shook her head. I stood up and the dog was next to my feet, his tail banging against my leg. I gave Morgan my hand and pulled her up to me. We swayed back and forth as the singer said something about disco lemonade. Morgan put her head against my chest. I brought the hand I had on her waist up to her back and pulled her in close. She put her arms around my back. The song continued on and Morgan stopped swaying back and forth with me. I saw her shoulders move up and down, heard her sniffling and felt a wetness on my shirt.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “How could you ask a thing like that?” she said wiping tears away. She hid her face in her palms and I had to grab an arm to keep her from running away.
    “Is it the move?”
    She let a couple laughs out.
    I pulled her in again.
    “How could you do this to me?”
    “I loved it here too.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    Her sobbing grew louder. I tried to pat her back, do something to take away the pain.
     “You’re not even sorry,” she said pulling away.
    Morgan ran to the bedroom and slammed the door. The dog lifted his head and looked at me. I walked off to the kitchen and opened the pantry. I grabbed one of the airplane bottles I hid behind the seasonings. Fucking Fireball, yuck. I let the cinnamon burn my throat and pulled the new pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. I tore off the cellophane and started walking toward the door. There was a box taped together in the hallway. MORGAN’S SHEETS was written on it. An uncapped sharpie laid on top of the box. I’d bought a pack of six for $4.25 three years ago, but I’d had no idea where the other five had gone – and I guess I never would.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...