Nelia hated cold toilet seats, especially in the middle of the night, when her body, warm from sleep, would clench at the porcelain icicle that sent the cold creeping through her thighs. She also hated those twenty seconds of silence between unanswered telephone calls. She couldn't understand why the person on the other end didn't just leave a message or hang up and call back. The most consecutive calls of this sort Nelia ever received amounted to eight. She could only assume it was the same person on the other end, but she could have been wrong. They could've all been from eight separate people, only she really couldn't believe eight separate people all wanted to talk to her at the same time. She couldn't name that many offhand at least.
Nelia also hated the inevitable threshold she would cross every morning, when her coffee reached the point of bitter charred tastelessness, as a result of being reheated too many times. Why she couldn't drink coffee at a normal rate like everyone else was something she grappled with every day. What made things worse, was that she was a complete coffee snob. She would only buy certain types of coffee she had accustomed her palette to, like Sumatra and Ethiopian. All others were a waste of caffeine. She was also meticulous about the water to bean ratio that she ritually fed into her gourmet Barista. Two bean to three water. It yielded a strong cup of coffee that she anticipated each morning as she slipped on her Minnetonka moccasins and skid across the wood floors to her black and white tiled kitchen. She had always wanted a kitchen just like this and now she had it. She had not, however, imagined the clumps of shedding dog hair and miscellaneous dirt that would collect in the corners by the fridge and alongside the cabinet baseboards, that crevice between polished wood and tiled floor where every bit of crumb and hair and dirt would flee to after being chased by the broom. They were safe from plain sight, and so would fester and grow and entice their friends to join them. Nelia did not understand how they escaped the dust buster, day after day. But they would somehow, and she hated that.
She also hated when the ends of her short brown hair flipped out on one side, but not the other. She felt it was some unfair trick the gods must be playing on her, as it was always exclusively (coincidentally, she didn't think so) when she was running late for an important engagement. Of course she'd have to show up to the 32nd annual AIDS benefit (a black tie event) with a perfect black dress and a perfect prepared speech ' a memorial of sorts to Vincent, who she tried to think of often but wasn't as successful as she wanted ' which she would deliver on stage in front of hundreds of the most respected philanthropists in her community, bathed under an oven of spot lights, magnified on five big screen TVs positioned conveniently around the hall, only to trip over her words because all she could see was the shadow the flipped out side of her hair made upon her perfectly scripted note cards.
It really wasn't fair. Nelia didn't know why things like this would populate her daily routines more so than others, but she felt they trickled throughout her day like an intermittent thunderstorm. Sunny and grassy calm of hot coffee one minute, then tormenting waves of telephone ringing and pellets of collecting dirt, splashing holes into the umbrellas, brooms and hampers she was trying to barricade herself with. It was no use. They would always find her. Better just to accept that and move on, like any normal person would. Only other so called normal people didn't have to deal with the barrage of inconveniences as Nelia did, for their lists weren't nearly as long.
Take Joe for example. Whether or not his hair flipped out on one side didn't really matter to him. He moved on with the rest of the day, forgetting to look in the mirror to reaffirm its state of disarray. It was hair, his hair, and whatever it did was fine with him, as long as it looked semi-presentable. He wasn't bothered. Same hair cut every month or so - from Bill the Barber, yes, his real name ' whom he'd been going to for years. Bill could cut his hair with his eyes closed, snip here and snip there, ten minutes later, Joe was smiling out of the chair and bidding farewell till next month. Why Nelia couldn't find someone she liked to cut her hair and why she herself could not manage the state of flip or not flip, was only more evidence to her mollified state she had become accustomed to.
But it was more than hair. It was also things like dirty socks underneath the coffee table. Nelia could only try to conceal her anger when Joe's socks were discovered by dinner guests, halfway between salad and the main course. They were always his ratty old not-quite white tube socks with the stretched out elastic ankle bands. Nelia would excuse herself, socks in hand, and have a moment of rage in the bathroom, emitting mutters she stifled with one of the bathroom towels so not to disturb her guests into assuming she was after all, a little crazy. She hardly thought this could be true though, as she sincerely believed that she was simply suffering from a severe disproportion in the amount of shitty things littering her day to day routine that just happened to piss the hell out of her. She would rarely do anything outright disturbing about these maladies, only in private of course, alone with her flipped out over-caffeinated reflection staring back at her.
Joe probably didn't know how much she was really bothered by his lack of discretion on where he chose to remove his gym socks after working out. Nelia could simply saunter up to him one night and just say, Joe would you mind putting your dirty socks in the hamper next time? He would probably say, Sure no problem. Only he didn't know better. That's what she managed to convince herself of at least. That he must have come from a family that didn't have a hamper. A family that left their soiled clothes about their ankles when they were through with them. Mom was probably also the silent type who politely collected their dirtied garments from wherever they ended up and herded them off to the laundry. Nelia wouldn't be surprised if Joe and his brothers were completely ignorant to the entire concept of laundry altogether. She imagined them at eight, ten, and twelve, never taking a moment to reflect on how their drawers of clean underwear never seemed to diminish. Day after day, their stock was replaced unknowing to them.
Nelia didn't understand why other women at least weren't infuriated by the fact that household cats would only choose the greenest newest leaves on indoor plants cuddling next to the sunny living room windows, as their dessert to breakfast, lunch, or dinner, or perhaps most likely, a midnight snack. The beautiful speckled leaves of her Dracaenas and velvet florets of Panams, those infant tender leaves only days into this world, those were the choosiest delicacies to Daisy, the orange tabby who slept the day away wherever it was Nelia wanted to be. That was simply how things were. This was the order of things as they were to occur in her home. What she wondered though, if she was not the particular victim who was the target of such inscrutable deviances, why weren't others talking? Why didn't Felicity say something during Monday morning yoga like, Oh, you wouldn't believe what Coco did today? He ate all of the newest buds on my Ficus! Can you believe that? A little utterance of complaint would assuage the pangs of frustration that milled inside Nelia, that fermented each day, to breed some brand new ailment that would prove doubly irritating. Only Felicity never touched upon such subjects in yoga. Instead she'd ask Nelia something like whether or not she caught last night's episode of Six Feet Under.
'Oh my god ' that Claire, poor girl! All she wants is to be an artist, why can't Ruth understand and let her make her own decisions? But you know, I remember what it was like at that age. You're so young and, horny, and you don't really know anything yet, but you think you do, and you don't want to listen to anyone, even if what they're saying is true and you know it, you almost want to rebel more, just because. Oh, I hope Ruth and Claire just hash it out and move on. Especially since George is going to be out of the picture soon'�'�
Nelia would fade in and out while her body moved through poses, listening, not listening, caring, not caring. Maybe she should watch more TV. Maybe if she knew what happened on Six Feet Under each week, she'd have some firmer grasp on reality and have a more balanced perspective on the world's troubles. How bad could her own irritations be compared to those of others? Could cold toilet seats and bitter coffee compare to Brenda's miscarriage and Billy's bipolar episodes? Nelia didn't have a wife who disappeared and whose body later turned up on the beach, bloated and torn into pieces, unrecognizable except for her teeth. Nelia's life was quite mild comparatively, even almost normal, she surmised after a weekend marathon of Seasons One through Four. She told Felicity this at yoga the following Monday. She told her she couldn't believe what this family was going through and how they managed to keep their heads on straight and why they weren't all going crazy.
And Felicity just smiled, and said, 'Well, aren't they all a little wacky? But that's kind of what's fun to watch, you know when they finally break and just go at it?'�
Class went on. Felicity pulled into downward facing dog, shooting pellets of sweat onto her purple mat. Nelia followed her cue and did the same. Only her breathing wasn't quite as deep, and not nearly as calm. She couldn't figure out when things would break for her. When she would have enough and break the silence she had fastened herself into. Why was she so afraid of disrupting the peace she knew was shallow and artificial to begin with? That's really what Joe was there for. To help her pretend things were nice and good and fine. She had to be the peacebringer if he was to be the breadwinner. Or something like that.
So that's what Nelia worked on the next week. Every little irritation she found scratching at her skin, was soon inflated to a new level. A level she wished would bring catharsis, and the eventual healing of her string of misfortunes. It's not that she wanted necessarily to become more agitated by these newly revealed absolutely benign annoyances, she simply wanted to use one as a catalysis for self revelation. Something to bring her to a higher state of awareness where she would be free to express the tomes that tugged at her insides. She wanted to free herself of self-effacing mutterings in the bathroom. She desired an embracement of the chaos that flooded all around her, that was swept into the corners of her kitchen and piled underneath her coffee table and stuck to the sides of her coffee maker. If she could make peace with these things, she would be set on her way to true enlightenment, and would be able to make peace with the world. Eventually.
Joe wanted to take her out to dinner for her birthday. Something nice, something fun. So they went to the new restaurant on the Square, The Old Fashioned, which it turns out, was named after the drink. Nelia had never had one, but she remembered her parents drinking them at cocktail hour. She'd sneak onto the porch after dinner on summer nights filled with golden sunsets and humid breezes that tickled the hairs on her legs. Mom would be in the wicker chair with the flowered cushions, and Dad would prop himself into Grandpa's old rocker. Grandpa wasn't around anymore, his chair surpassing him now five years. A few times, she'd wander out and ask what they were doing, and Mom would turn to her and say, 'Nothing much dear'� and she never understood that. Why would anyone want to do nothing? Isn't the point of life, of sunlight, of moonlight, of everything, to do something? It would come to the point where she became inconceivable, childishly irritated that this was always the response. So she mostly stayed inside after that. She'd prop herself up on the couch in the parlor and watch them from the window. She'd see them talk, bow their heads into their glasses and touch hands every so often. But mostly they'd lean back into their chairs and fix their eyes on some invisible preoccupation off in the distance. Nelia wondered what their secret was and why they couldn't just tell. Maybe they thought she was too young to know and they'd tell her when she was older. But they never did, and then again, she never did ask.
Funny how she forgot about this until Joe brought her here tonight, because it was her birthday, and he wanted to take her somewhere nice. And now, all she could think about was how her parents looked on the porch through those sheer curtains. So peaceful, so at ease, so loving and serene. Not quite drunk, looking back she claimed the look in their eyes wasn't the glare of intoxication, it was something else. Something so completely unrecognizable it almost scared her. But somehow that's exactly what she wanted.
Dinner at The Old Fashioned was excellent, as were most of places Joe took Nelia to. He knew restaurants, which was part of his job as a food critic. It wasn't exactly his paid job ' for that he worked for a corporate beverage distributor as a sales rep in their beer and wine department. He kind of fashioned himself into a makeshift critic after so many horrible, and so many exceptional dining experiences. He began with the others in his division at work, describing the intimate details of each course and what was too salty and what was too rich or not rich enough or just right or absolutely phenomenal, and after a while, people starting taking his recommendations seriously enough to venture out themselves to designated eateries. Upon confirmation that Joe knew a thing or two about where to eat and where not to eat, he was dubbed their division's food critic. News of his distinguished palate germinated throughout town and after awhile, Joe Haights was known as the unofficial food critic for the unofficial population of the average folk. He didn't mind the title and rather embellished his honors at times in order to get a table by the window, or another bottle of Pinot Grigio. Nelia always thought it rather astonishing that one man could be so inexplicably distinguishing in what he puts in his mouth, but not what he puts on his feet. Why would a man like Joe continue to wear tube socks whose color had soiled to almost grey and whose elastic had stretched into a collapsing band that fell to his ankles before even making it out the door. She just didn't get it. And it irritated her.
The day after her birthday, Nelia became inspired by the prior night's outing. She shoveled through the basement for two folding chairs laden with so much dust she left smudges of white where her fingers slid across. She dragged them outside and unwound the garden hose, which of course, was tangled because no one, except for her, wound it after using. Why Joe couldn't use the nice neat wheel with the handle he insisted they buy last summer at Home Depot, was a concept Nelia fixated on for the duration of her project. The dust slid down the metal legs in long streams, puddling onto the sidewalk in a torrent of water. Wind the hose, Joe. Hey Joe, can you wind the hose? Joe the hose! They all sounded incriminating in some way, and she found it impossible to manipulate the words into a palatable demand. She continued with the hose until both chairs were again their true colors. She laid them in the sun to dry, leaving the hose where it had fallen across the sidewalk. The nozzle was sputtering miniature fountains of water as the pressure died and the water retreated. Nelia refused the inclination to retrieve the hose and return in to its proper place. Joe, the hose ' now!
Joe's car pulled in front of the house a little after six. He was sweaty and his hair a mess and Nelia knew where he'd been. From inside, she could see those grey sweaty socks creep up the sidewalk, undisturbed by the hose, and up the front porch. There he paused. Nelia emerged from the house with a towel. She gently placed it into his hands and directed him inside. 'Shower first, then meet me out front.'� She kissed him on the cheek, tasting the salty stubby that he wore across his face.
As Nelia sat on the plastic plaid folding chair, she wondered what ever happened to cocktail hour? Did the desire for such an hour diminish or had people invented a new cocktail hour equivalent she wasn't privy to? It seemed such a novel idea, to allow yourself a time and place to sit still and reflect on the day's work and just be. Ignore every frivolous detail of the days mishaps and focus only on the present lack there of. Why didn't more people do this? Maybe they did and she was simply unaware. Perhaps this was the very thing that kept normal people normal? Alcohol. Well no, not exactly. All of the above. The sitting and the relaxation and the reflection and, well she supposed the alcohol couldn't hurt.
Joe strutted onto the porch in sweats and a 'Ski Breckenridge'� T-shirt with armpit stains, and a bleach stain down the front. Nelia forced her thoughts to calmer places beyond his attire. After all, it didn't matter what he wore, the fact that he was here would be what she was celebrating. She covered her string of imitation pearls with the collar of her blouse, and patted the seat next to her. Joe sat, as commanded. Nelia pivoted to her right and retrieved two glasses from a plastic crate she constructed into a makeshift table. She handed a glass to Joe, which he took with outstretched fingers. Dirt hid underneath his nails, which were generally unkempt as usual. Nelia drew her eyes up to his and pushed a smile across her face.
'Old fashioneds, member? I thought it might be nice.'� Joe looked into his glass and back up at Nelia, smirking as he shook his head.
He raised his glass and dedicated his drink to Nelia and her very special day. She didn't tell him about cocktail hour, didn't mention her parents in their rockers on the porch. She only leaned back and cast her eyes into the distance. This was ok, she thought. She would mention the hose some other time. This moment was too perfect to ruin. For once, she refused to ruin it.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...