—SO THAT CAN REALLY HAPPEN?

                       It Could Be Anybody, But It’s Not 

This bartender could be anybody.

But there’s something about the peppercorn brown flecks in his eyes, something about his pinwheel smile and pincushion dimples that remind me of your ex-husband.  

They don’t wear name tags here and so I don’t ask.  Instead, I order another, this time a double.

The guy who could be your ex is slick, alternating between French and Italian accents depending on the babe sitting on the stool.

To the tittering blonde with zombie drool sliding down her shoulder strap he says, Voulez-vou coucher ave moi? (Would you like to sleep with me tonight?) 

Blondie giggles like a drunk duck, flaps her wing and says, You’re funny.

I hang around till closing, when it’s just me, your ex and a dozen women waiting to see who the bartender will choose.

I know he’s not really your ex.  Your ex is in prison for all those girls he chopped up.  But I wonder if your ex operated in a similar fashion as this guy, baiting his victims, bursting with charm and machismo.  I wonder why if, as you say, he was evil incarnate, then why do you still keep his old pictures stored in that shoe box in the closet, and why do you say his name in your sleep. 

                               THE CLOUDS BELOW ME

On the flight, the clouds below keep their distance, treating me like a leper.  I’ve been drinking and have everything slowed down to a dull, repetitive sandpaper mush of white noise.  Even the flight staff move like scarecrows barely bent by a breeze.

So far, I’ve seen God once or twice, but both times he was yawning and a little dyslexic, so sidetracked and strung out on abstinence.

Where I’m going no one looks like me and no one knows my name.  I studied the travel brochure in advance as a pre-caution.  I probably shouldn’t even be taking this trip, but sometimes the best way to torture yourself is avoiding suicide, waking up to another day that hates you as much as you hate yourself.  So why not hate yourself in a foreign land?

The toddler yelping in 12A is just another squalling kid, annoying everyone within earshot.  But I recognize that sound, the ratcheted gulps of air tucked between high-pitched squeals, and I miss it.

You and I and Jamie would have been flying somewhere else right about now, to Disney World perhaps.  Mickey, Minnie, Donald and Goofy—Jamie’s favorites.  Disney World is Vegas for kids, everything exaggerated, on steroids, magical, yes, the happiest place on earth, and that’s where we would have gone.

The flight attendant has a tic in her eye when I order my sixth drink.  She’s a skinny Olive Oyl cartoon, like your sister Jen.  Like Jen, she’s thinking, Shame on you.

You aren’t supposed to outlive your child.  It’s not natural or just.  You’re not supposed to kill your child either, even if it’s an accident and the authorities don’t charge you.  Don’t think I haven’t thought about that everyday this last year and a half.

At baggage claim, the squawking kid from 12A throws a tantrum around the luggage carousel.  It’d be best to ignore it, same as everyone else, but I don’t.

I approach, bend down to her eye-level.  I reach into my duffel and retrieve the stuffed bear Jamie always claimed talked to her, making her giggle so sweetly.

“Here,” I tell the kid, “someone you don’t know really wants you to have this.”