My Cardboard Balcony

Crybaby by Belinda Roddie I can start counting how many times I've cried over things you can't see without a microscope, but my memories all collapse into one big black hole, and I always forget if I've left off on one or ten or fifteen hundred. No, I'm not interested in rehashing old stories, or using my thumb to paint eyes that see only into the past, with dilating pupils. If I only just stopped looking for colors that didn't exist, I wouldn't get so emotional over a rainbow, or a Jackson Pollock heart attack on canvas, or the last time you held my hand at just the right angle while we were walking into a purple sunset. I am stained glass: Vivid, but fragile. I can withstand only some natural disasters. Rain doesn't do much damage; it shows up under my eyes a lot. It streaks my cheeks with dust, and I have to wash away each sorrow like a separate blotch, finding new erosion with each sensation of panic rendering me unstable and daz...

"I went to the bank like you told me to." "No," I replied. "No, you didn't." He bristled. The hair on his head stood up in the cold breeze. "Are you calling me a liar?" he scowled. "Yes," I retorted, holding out my phone, "because I just checked the account. There were no deposits made in the past three days. Now, just tell me what you did with my money, and we can figure things out without my having to call the authorities."