My Cardboard Balcony

A Cabin For The Hopeless Romantic by Belinda Roddie There's a cabin for the hopeless romantic. It rises like a loose tooth from a speckled gum, a red passion post in the middle of no man's land - with trees. Lots of trees. This was where I carried you, through the smallest of towns, over dry creek beds and fallen, useless timber, past abandoned rope swings and punctured tires from cars nobody drives anymore. Like the beige pick-up that smelled like pine sap and old flannel and dog hair - because the one who adored the joy ride in the back of that jalopy the most was the family boxer. There's a cabin for the hopeless romantic. Inside, the ugly black and white couch we sat on years ago is gone; instead, there's lounge furniture misconstrued as "classy," or containing "rustic charm." The record player has been replaced, vinyls tucked away like sleeping octogenarians, dreaming about the needle tracing their smiles with music. You

I find her swaying, upright, in the dining room, with all the lights on, all the candles lit, and all the windows open - which sweeps in the rain like wet, translucent confetti, making itself at home in our tiny domain. I approach her; she's asleep. Of course. This is not the first time I've seen her in this state. And when I touch her, she moans. She is, at first, incoherent. I do not understand her. "Um...pardon, love?" Then she becomes insistent; frustrated, even. "I am STEEPING the fucking TEA!"