My Cardboard Balcony

Her Hair Was Wet by Belinda Roddie Her hair was wet, and her skin smelled like peach just plucked from an orchard. I held her in my arms and lifted her so she could reach the cabinet to get a jar of gin. We drank hard liquor together, our throats tightening, and our words locked up inside a figurative box. Outside, the boats were sailing in their parade, endless pride in their captains' hearts. My stomach heavy from the booze, I let my rough fingers brush the stumps of where my love's legs used to be before the accident. She let me touch each scarred and battered part of her, and yet there was no comfort she could ever get.

The detergent that Ariana used for her husband's laundry wasn't exactly stellar, and sure enough, when she pulled the garments out of the dryer, she could still see the faint remains of coffee stains, ketchup marks, and grease kisses all over the fabric. They weren't horrible, but they were like the tiny ghosts of meals past, reminding the woman of her significant other's poor attempts to keep food in his mouth and not on his shirt.