My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie I've been doing housework all day - scrubbing, soaking, sweeping every bit of residue that remained of you - when she walks in through the front door without so much as knocking. She has curly brown hair, big eyes belonging more to a doe than to a human, and yet a smile that peaks like a glorious mountain during sunrise. She sits at the dining room table as I work, scouring every plate and bowl and glass we got as our wedding presents, and asks if she'd like me to help. "It's not your mess." She laughs then, then exhales and shakes her head as if warding away the impending mosquitos of summer. Her east coast accent is so much lighter now, yet I'll always recognize its timbre. It's the rhythm of a voice I've been accused of maintaining, despite my Californian roots - all six generations of it. And she stands up and removes the sponge from my grimy hands. "Take a break. You deserve it." She offers me a glass of wine

If at first you don't succeed...invest in an aluminum baseball bat and use it to beat the snot and/or tar out of your haters. Then, once they've stopped moving, dump their bodies into the sewer because the water system in your hometown is absolute rubbish, and no one will taste anything different about their water. Then, after a few months, move to a small town to the north of your current residence and become a wheat farmer.