My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie It had been three nights since Heather had gotten any sleep, the thought of what she had done was obviously weighing on her. Her wife noticed this fairly quickly, and after all the tossing and turning, Heather had excused herself to crash on the couch so as not to disturb the love of her life. She tried making coffee and let the dark, earthy odor fill her nostrils like a mucus-y bitterness, yet she couldn't bring herself to drink the brew. It was three AM on the third night. The living room was hot and sticky even with the windows open. It wasn't that she had killed a man. It wasn't that she had betrayed the love of her life. It wasn't even that she had lost everything to chance, or to carelessness. She had a good job, a good relationship, a good paycheck, and yes, a good, clean public record - she hadn't even received a traffic ticket. Heather set the mug of joe down and considered having tea instead. The thought of the powerful hit of mint or

I wanted to stay in that town, but the climate was getting to me, both physically and emotionally. The dry, cold air made my nostrils itch and throb, and sometimes, when I sneezed, I spotted dashes and splatters of clotted blood on the tissue I used. Morrison didn't want to leave. They were so convinced that this place was the home we could have for our children. But I wouldn't allow it. The overcast skies, the frost, the rain - it was dragging my spirit down.