My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie ‎"Did you know the velociraptor's prey of choice is the dingo?" asked the pseudo-wacky host of the pseudo-satirical documentary, just before my thumb scraped at the channel button and made his goofy face disappear. "Hey!" my little brother protested, but I didn't listen. Instead, I went to Channel 2, because it was eight o'clock in the evening and I had my bowl of pretzels and can of coke ready to go. To Larry, not being able to see a manic-browed man dressed up like a psychedelic safari leader wasn't suitable for a TV viewing, so instead he trotted sulking out of the room in order to play with his giant blue bucket of legos. I was happy to have the space to myself. My parents were out for the night, and I could watch my favorite show in peace. I waited for the straight-forward title cards to flash by before the person I wanted to see strolled onscreen, dressed in the token collared white shirt with the three-quarter sleeves

Alex was still dwelling on the past hour, the second hand mocking her with its nagging black finger as it danced across the grandfather clock beside the couch she had collapsed onto. That hour, where she had been nestled between her two sisters, being told the news. "Your father won't be living with us anymore." It wasn't that he didn't love his wife and kids. It was that he didn't love women.