Snow

by Colleen Sutherland

“The snow covers all.....”

Who said that? she wondered, as she pushed her walker up the hill ahead of her, the tote bag swinging back and forth, the thermos bottle sticking out. “One step at a time,” her doctor told her, after her last fall. “Take it slow. You can accomplish anything if you take your time.”

She would see about that. She pushed on. The little wheels caught in the dried grass. She jerked at the walker, caught her balance and pushed on.

“The snow covers all...or was it the grass?” She couldn't remember. Some poet....

She could see Robert ahead, the green green wreath with the cheerful red ribbon waving in the wind above the headstone.

“Why bother with a wreath this year,” her son asked at Christmas Eve. “Nobody goes up there to see it anyhow.”

He was right. The Old Settlers Cemetery hadn't seen a burial in years. But it was where her parents were buried, where her grandparents and great grandparents lay. And it was where Robert was buried, so many years ago. She insisted and on Christmas Eve, she and her family placed the wreath there. But that was a month ago. It was time to take it down...but they could do that later.

She stopped to catch her breath. The altitude was not so high really, but she was old. The oxygen pack at her side couldn't keep up. One step at a time. She moved on.

Thank goodness Robert had selected a flat tombstone. She sat on it to rest.

The Old Settlers Cemetery was in the High Plains at the plain's highest point. Beyond the Rocky Mountains rose up, the Flatirons thrusting out of the city. The old settlers had chosen this spot for their burial because of the view, she thought.

She shivered. The morning's forecast was for snow. She watched the clouds make their shadows on the stones of the Rockies, pushing the cold ahead of them. She would have to hurry before the ground got too hard.

She reached into the tote and pulled its contents out. The hand spade, a thermos of tea, and Corky. She dropped it all on Robert's grave.

She wanted to take Corky to the vet for his final visit at Christmas. He was so old and in pain. It was time. But the children were busy visiting old friends and celebrating down at the bar so that they didn't have time.

“We'll take care of it on your birthday,” her daughter said. “And we should talk about where you should live then, too. We'll all be here again at the end of January.”

She knew what that meant. They were going to take her out of her house and move her into assisted living, their idea of a birthday celebration. They had found time to call the Department of Motor Vehicles. Two days ago, she had been informed that her driver's license had been rescinded. She had driven here anyhow. What would happen if the police stopped her? Take away her license? After today, it wouldn't make any difference.

Last night, she had taken care of Corky herself. A little poison in his favorite food and this morning he was gone. She would bury him beside Robert, who had given her Corky as a tiny kitten, two months before he died. “He'll be company for you,” he said. A few days later he slipped into his final coma.

She pushed the walker away and slipped off the tombstone onto her bony knees to land beside Corky. She gasped as she hit the ground. It hurt, but then everything hurt these days.

Robert's dates were almost obliterated from the prairie dust. It had been a dry summer. She pulled her handkerchief from her jacket and carefully wiped away the dates. She had her name engraved in the stone, too, and her dates. She had put “19” for her death date, leaving the last two digits for what was inevitable. But she had lived on, and on, and on. The millennium changed and she was still here, feeling foolish about that “19”. The Y2K nonsense was nothing compared to all those widows waiting too long to die.

She stabbed the spade into the ground. It was still soft enough to work and what difference did it make how long this would take. She stopped from time to time looking around at this familiar ground. All around her were graves, some dating back to the Civil War. The cemetery began as a boot hill for miners who died of cholera, typhoid, tuberculosis and gunshot wounds. Back then, few died of old age. They were the lucky ones.

The city was in charge of the cemetery upkeep. Very little had been done of late and with the change of the political scene, no more would be done. The mayor, backed by the city council, had unanimously decreed that the cemetery would be closed. No more burials would take place after a June deadline. The dead could get their perpetual care at the new cemetery in the suburbs. It would save the taxpayers money, that was all that mattered. A balanced budget mattered more than the people buried there and their elderly families.

She stabbed the dirt even harder when she thought about the bastards.

It wouldn't matter to most. It wasn't like there were many funerals over the past twenty years. The few who came here were the Chicanos. They buried their children and for a few years there would be little plastic toys littered around the cemetery, then a few plastic flowers, then the graves were forgotten. This Christmas hers had been the only wreath.

She paused for breath and looked down the hill. Prairie dogs poked their heads out of their burrows to watch, curious about her, but also keeping an eye out for the hawks that flew overhead looking for a plump dinner. The prairie dog town was working its way up the slope. Some of the oldest graves had already been dug through. She thought about bones being pushed this way and that by the furry bodies. Soon they would reach Robert, too, though his solid casket would protect him. He wouldn't have cared if the prairie dogs had dug him up. He loved all wild things, so he wouldn't mind the company.

The hole was big enough. She slipped Corky out of his Costco bag. She gave him a hug, but he was already cold. She smoothed his fur and put him in his grave. She whispered a prayer that cats would go to heaven and covered him up.

She rolled over and leaned her back against the stone. The clouds had reached the Flatirons. She could see the storm as streaks against the horizon. It was time. She reached for the thermos and poured a nice cup of tea into the plastic cup. It was hot but she sipped anyhow. It was bitter. Most of the honey had settled to the bottom of the thermos. She closed it up again and tipped it back and forth, blending the honey in with the rest of the contents. She tried again. There, it was better. She never had honey with her tea, but this was a special occasion.

There....yes, there. She could feel it down to her toes. It was time. Big fluffy snowflakes touched her face.

She turned off the oxygen and set the portable tank to one side. She slowly unbuttoned her coat, and slipped it off. She settled once more again the stone, the yellowed old wedding gown spread over her thighs and legs. Now drowsy, she drank the tea until the cup slipped from her hands.

The snow covers all.....who was it that said that?

Karma

Image by Selket via Wikimedia Commons

Author's Note: This is a microfiction story written with a limit of 350 words. For those unfamiliar with the form, a microfiction story is written to come in under a strict word count. The story is pared to the bare essentials, and many elements are only hinted at or implied. Please leave a comment if you would like to see more stories in this form, or if you prefer longer stories. -WP 

When Runni found the corpse with the snakebites, he didn't believe it. Surely it was a trick, a cruel joke. He took the body back to the village, where old men muttered and a fresh widow grieved. Children pushed each other for the best spot, just an inch shy of arm's reach to view the bloating man on his pyre. They whispered about the cobra bite on the man's soft hands and wondered how long before the vermin found their way back into the village. Would more pyres follow?

The fire was lit at dusk after all had said their goodbyes and laid their gifts of food. Scarlet chrysanthemums ringed the former hero, and their scent accompanied his spirit past the veil.

The spirit found himself on a road not unlike the one on which he died. He placed one foot in front of another, not daring to look at the coils of mist to either side that rose up and hissed at him with flared hoods.

Red-booted Yama met him at the crossroads. The god of death hailed him.

“It is time to take your karma's account, Mon-” The death god said.

The spirit held up his hand “Please, Lord Yama, I no longer deserve that name.”

Yama's face was as terrible as a monsoon, until he chanced to look at the spirit's hand. The two tiny marks left from the cobra were red and angry, even here. The storm broke as Yama let out a booming laugh.

“Indeed.” he said. “Let us see to your karma, then.” The death god raised his hands and two mountains of pebbles rose about them, one white and one black.

When the tally was taken, the mountain of white stones only just outnumbered the black. Lord Yama grunted.

“Barely enough.” The death god stood aside and indicated the right-hand path.

The spirit of the royal assassin who turned traitor to save a small village looked down the path. The man formerly known as Mongoose walked towards his life's reward.   

Black Noise

By Bettyann Moore

After rinsing her hair, Sheila shut off the hot tap, then yelped as cold water sluiced down her body. She began counting as she turned slowly under the shower head. Goosebumps rose; her nipples ached as they puckered into hard, red knots.

“Fifty!” she yelled, then shut the tap off completely, her whole body shaking.

She pulled back the sliding glass door and reached for a towel, noting that Clyde had set a cup of steaming coffee on the edge of the sink.

“Bless you,” she said aloud, stepping out of the shower and grabbing the cup.

Still dripping, she took a big gulp and yelped again. Nonetheless, before she drew on her face and dried her hair, she drank the hot liquid eagerly, trying to clear her head.

Day Three, she mused, staring into the mirror. How long, she wondered, can a person go without sleep? She leaned her head back, pulled down her lower lid, then dripped eye drops into her red eyes. The effort exhausted her and she doubted it was worth it anyway. She looked like shit. She felt like shit.

“Darling, you look marvelous!” Clyde enthused in his oh-so-British accent as she dragged-stepped herself into the kitchen.

“Tell me you’re kidding,” Sheila said to her husband who was busy at the stove, one of her frilly green aprons cinched at his waist. She dropped heavily into a chair at the table and reached for the coffee carafe. She loved Clyde, but his chipper morning persona was the last thing she needed. What she needed was coffee, and lots of it.

“There, there, my sweet,” Clyde said, bustling toward her with a plate full of food, “another bad night?”

He plunked the plate down on the table and her stomach lurched. Bacon. Eggs, over easy. Hash browned potatoes.

“This will set you to rights,” Clyde said, standing behind her. He gripped her shoulders and started massaging them, thumbs digging deep into unyielding knots. Sheila groaned and leaned into his fingers.

“Don’t stop,” she said, meaning it.

“No, no, silly,” he said, slapping her lightly on her shoulder, “the food, the food will set you to rights. Goodness, a real massage would knock you out and today’s a big day!”

Sheila slumped in her chair as Clyde scurried back into the kitchen to get glasses of juice.

It was a big day. Her boss’s boss, Denton Hamilton (what a name!), was due to show his face at the magazine at 10 a.m. They’d been prepping for weeks. Rumors had been flying. Buy-out. Venture capital company. Downsizing. Layoffs. Sheila, as publisher, had been wearing her firefighter’s hat for far too long, putting out rumors among her young staff as they flared up. Exhausted as she was, she still couldn’t sleep.

Sheila picked listlessly at her breakfast, her head leaning heavily on her left hand.

“Dear one,” Clyde said, suddenly at her side. “I know you don’t feel like eating, but you must keep up your strength!” He picked up her juice glass and, as if she were a child, brought it to her lips. She drank.

Dear, dear Clyde, she thought. Always there to save me from myself and, in truth, she did feel better after one of his lovingly prepared meals. She smiled gratefully up at him and scooped up a large helping of eggs.

“There’s my girl!” he chirped. It always amazed Sheila how his accent made everything sound so soothing. She loved his accent; she loved him. She’d met him in Philadelphia just four years prior. A retired chemist, he was on a month-long tour of historic spots in the U.S., and she was playing hooky from a publisher’s meeting. He was 30-some years older than she, but Sheila was drawn in by his courtly, Old World manners. At the age of 30, Sheila was fed up with American men of her age, their beer-stained sweatshirts and weekend sports TV habits. Plus, Clyde was obviously smitten. He had been at the end of his visa when they met, but they corresponded via Skype, email, phone and instant message until he could get another visa. Sheila never hesitated to help him with the fare. They were married shortly after. They’d celebrated his new citizenship just last month.

“Love,” he said now, “shouldn’t you be popping off to the office?”

Sheila shook her head to clear it and glanced down at her wristwatch.

“Crap!” she said, rising. “I’m going to be late!”

“There, there,” Clyde soothed. “You have plenty of time. Shall I drive you? You seem awfully tired ...” He gave her a worried look.

Sheila smiled gratefully at him as she gathered her briefcase and keys. “No, darling,” she said, “I’ll be okay. What are you going to do today?” she asked, making an effort to smile brightly at him.

“Oh, this and that.” he said, “Pottering and puttering … I also have a surprise for you later ...” He grinned at her, his dark blue eyes twinkling.

“A surprise! After today, I’m sure I’ll be in need of a surprise, a good one.”

He assured her it was so and waved fondly from the porch as her red 1968 Mustang sped down the block.

It was after 10 pm when Sheila dragged into the house, the dark brown curls on her head as limp and lifeless as she felt. The meeting with Denton – call me Dent – Hamilton had been worse than they’d feared. The magazine had indeed been sold to a venture capital company and its first move was to get rid of the highest paid employees, with a small severance package tacked on, of course. Her top sales woman, the art director and editor would be gone within the week. They’d given Sheila two weeks to clear out. Sheila had, as Clyde would say, been made redundant.

Sheila scanned the quiet living room, dropping her briefcase and keys onto the leather sectional. Where is Clyde anyway, she wondered. She cocked her head, listening for a sound, difficult in the best of times with her tinnitus and worse with lack of sleep.

“Clyde?” she called, heading toward the master bedroom. She thought she heard a faint hissing sound coming from behind the door. It got louder as she approached.

“Surprise!” Clyde yelled when she opened the door, causing Sheila’s heart, she was sure, to stop momentarily.

Before she could say anything, the noise in the room went from hissing to gurgling, from gurgling to pulsing as Clyde turned the dial on an unfamiliar black box on her bedside table.

“What? What is that?” Sheila had to practically yell over the cacophony.

The room suddenly fell silent as Clyde rushed to her side.

“It’s your surprise, Darling,” he said, pulling her across the room. “It’s a white noise machine. There’s ever so many settings and, look,” he said, pointing to a button, “you can program it to play for hours and hours or for just a short time. It’s sure to drown out your tinnitus and there has to be a setting that will lull you to sleep. Do you like it?” He looked eagerly up at her.

Sheila sank down onto the bed with a sigh.

“It’s a lovely idea,” she managed, “but nothing has worked so far, Clyde,” she said, remembering the yoga, the prescription pills, the herbal pills and rubs, the sleep-inducing teas and concoctions. She used to fall asleep in three seconds flat, but the insomnia, like the tinnitus, had been plaguing her for over a year now. And over the last few days, it’d grown worse.

Clyde barely hid his disappointment. Sheila rallied.

“Of course I like it, Clyde,” she said, rubbing his back. “I’m just not myself right now. I need sleep and maybe, just maybe, your white noise machine will do the trick.”

For the next 20 minutes Clyde eagerly demonstrated the various sounds and settings. Sheila couldn’t imagine trying to fall asleep to the “City” setting with its honking horns and sirens, nor the “Train,” which, when used in enhanced mode, included whistles. “Waterfall,” maybe. “Babbling Brook” … possibly. “Rainfall,” definitely one she’d try, though not enhanced with claps of thunder. “Meadow” sounded exactly like the noises she heard in her head 24/7 … crickets, cicadas and tree frogs with occasional high-pitched whines. She’d skip “Meadow”.

Sheila recounted the day’s events at the office while Clyde fixed her a vodka and tonic.

“Horrible way to treat the person who took that magazine out of the red and into the black!” Clyde declared as he handed her the drink.

Sheila sipped and made a face.

“So sorry, old girl,” Clyde said. “Had to use the cheap vodka we bought for the party last month. We’re all out of the Ketel One. I’ve put it on my shopping list.”

“No, no, this is fine,” Sheila assured him and took a bigger drink. “Alcohol is alcohol and maybe it’ll help me get to La-La-Land.”

Clyde threw back his head and laughed heartily. “You Yanks have quaint expressions, I must say. Now be a love and finish that drink while I see about dinner.” He kissed the top of her head and scurried toward the kitchen. Sheila sank back in the big leather chair and all but gulped the cocktail.

Later, it was all Sheila could do to keep her eyes open at the dinner table. The homemade bread and cottage pie, one of Clyde’s specialties, smelled and looked wonderful, though at this point Sheila was seeing double. She smiled up at the two Clydes as they dished out the food, determined that on this night she would finally sleep.

“There, there, dear,” Clyde said, giving her shoulder a pat, “after dinner I’ll make you some of my famous hot chocolate and tonight you willsleep,” he declared, echoing her thoughts.

Sheila barely listened as Clyde recounted all the neighborhood gossip during the meal. The tinnitus was worse than ever. She was surprised Clyde couldn’t hear it across the table. Not only was she seeing double, but hearing double. She threw in a few exclamations and “uhuhs” here and there and that seemed to suffice. Clyde understood. After all, he was the one who’d had to put up with her tossing and turning all night long, the poor dear.

By the time she’d finished her hot chocolate, Sheila was near-comatose, though her extremities tingled and her heart raced. Clyde helped her dress for bed. As she held her arms over her head and he slipped her nightgown over them, she vaguely recalled a time when she’d be turned on by such a thing. She wanted to reach for Clyde and pull him close, but recoiled at the idea of taking it any further. Sleep. She wanted blessed sleep, that was all.

The next thing she knew, he was tucking her into bed, the electric blanket set on high. It felt, oh-so-good. Then he was holding out one hand; in the other he held a glass of water.

“This will help,” he said, his voice soothing and calm.

“What is it?” she asked, though she really didn’t care. She struggled to pull herself upright.

“One of the new sleeping pills your doctor prescribed,” he said, lowering it onto her tongue.

“I’m not sure I need ...” He was holding the glass to her lips and she swallowed her words and the water passively.

Clyde gently pushed her down into the bed and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders as she liked. He set the brown prescription bottle on the nightstand and pushed a button on the new white noise machine. Instantly, the room was filled with the sounds of sweet, gentle rain.

“Tonight, you will be dead to the world, my love,” he said, stroking her hair.

Sheila’s head reeled as her body sunk deeper into the memory foam. She felt cocooned, weightless.

“I’m going to sleep on the sofa tonight,” Clyde crooned, still hovering over her. “You needn’t worry about me.”

Worrying about Clyde was beyond Sheila at that point. As he backed away from the bed, the lovely sound of falling rain overtook the horrible clicks and whistles of the tinnitus. As soon as the door closed and the darkness surrounded her, however, Sheila felt a heavy weight descend on her. It was as if she were sinking further into the foam, that it was enveloping her. She tried to lift her arms and head and found that she couldn’t. Panic stabbed through her. She tried to call for Clyde, but no sounds came. The sibilant false rain of the noise machine seemed to grow louder.

She heard voices. Was Clyde entertaining guests at this hour? She strained to hear. Was that laughter? The tinkling of ice in glasses? Someone saying her name? Yes, there it was: Sheila, Sheila, Sheila, over and over again. More laughter, then: Sheila, Sheila, Sheila. It beat in time with her hammering heart, filling her head.

Sheila tried to tamp down her mounting terror. “I’m having a panic attack,” she told herself, “brought on by lack of sleep, the stress of losing my job, alcohol, maybe even the new sleeping pill. There are no voices, only the ones in my head!”

As if prompted by the last thought, the voice saying her name seemed to fill the room. Sheila … Sheila … Ssshheila … Ssssssssssshhheila … it became the long, drawn-out hiss of a snake, a storm of black rain falling on her head.

When he saw the empty prescription bottle on the nightstand, the coroner knew what he was dealing with. He shook his head; it was a tragedy in one so young, but not unheard of in this dog-eat-dog world. A cursory autopsy validated his suspicions: acute myocardial infarction brought on by an overdose of prescription sleeping pills.

After the burial, sparsely attended due to a sudden downpour, Clyde made his way gingerly to Sheila’s – his – red mustang. A tad gauche given the surroundings and circumstances, but he did so love to drive it. Beside him on the white leather seat sat a black bag weighted down with stones and filled with various tools of his former trade: Bunsen burner, vials and tubes, clear, colorless liquids and white powders. His passport was in his jacket pocket, next to his heart. After a quick stop at the aptly named Mud Lake, he had a long, leisurely drive south, to Rio, ahead. After that, there was a widow in Oregon he intended to meet, quite casually, outside her well-appointed home. He’ll be walking dogs, perhaps; she did so love dogs.

But first, he needed a vacation.

Garlic

by Colleen Sutherland

Sometimes the best way to end a relationship is with a quick and nasty knife to the gut.

Kathy met Bertrand at a library book club. He was one of the few men at gathering and the only one who read the books and could discuss them. She thought most of the male readers were there to meet women. Bertrand was skinny and balding with an oversize nose but at her age Kathy had developed the knack of looking inside to see what she might find. Within a few weeks, she was meeting Bertrand for coffee after the library closed, their discussions going on until the coffee shop manager shoved them out the door. They disagreed on most of the books they read. He liked history, but nothing after the Civil War. She enjoyed novels, especially modern novels by good authors. They debated each book, tore into it as no one else in the book club did.

In time, they moved to a bar after the coffee shops closed to continue their arguments. One night, more than a little inebriated, Kathy did what she really hadn't planned on and woke to find him in her bed. Well, she thought, nothing for it but to make him breakfast and send him on his way. The book club was finished for the winter and she wouldn't see him again until the fall and then only if they both signed on. 

Breakfast changed all that.

Besides the book club, Kathy's other nights out were spent at classes at the local technical college studying the culinary arts. Her long term plan was to become a chef but so far, all she got were offers at fast food places frying chicken. She continued to practice her skills at home, inventing new recipes, trying out spices, and testing everything herself. Perhaps a catering career was in her future. She didn't see herself in a corporate setting forever.

When she served Bertrand a blue cheese and bacon omelet for breakfast with hazelnut coffee, he was smitten and she finally had someone to test her recipes. He was now part of her life.

He was intelligent in a wordy kind of way but it dawned on her that he was Tea Party and she was a Fighting Bob LaFollette progressive. During elections he worked the phones at the GOP headquarters and she did the same for the Democrats. They didn't discuss politics when they were together. And the sex....there was always that.

He was spending more and more time at her apartment. His toothbrush was there and he was always prompt about showing up for dinners.

One night she was cooking baked chicken and pastina, Bertrand wandered into the kitchen. He sat on a stool with his mouth watering and chattered about the latest book club selection. He was half way through, she was just beginning.

“Here,” she said. “You can help.”

She gave him a knife and told him to chop up some onions. He was doing it all wrong so she showed him how. “Do it right and you won't tear up.”

He was intrigued. His mother never let the boys in his family cook. It looked like fun. “Teach me,” he said. And so their lessons began.

At first she made him the salad chef and taught him about greens. He did his best, but he really preferred iceberg lettuce to arugula. He sneaked in his own lettuce and added it to the salads. She didn't mind that much so left him alone.

She began to teach him how to do Italian dishes which were really easy once you had the knack. The problem was garlic. He didn't like pealing the cloves, smashing them and chopping them. “It's a lot of work for a couple of cloves,” he complained.

“Oh, but the results.” Kathe said, “and you might as well learn how, garlic shows up in lots of recipes.”

The next day they went shopping for groceries together for that night's meal. She was in the produce department when he found a jar and showed it to her. “Look,” he said. “You can get garlic already chopped up. Why bother with the other? This is less work.”

“You can get it, but you'll see the difference. Fresh is better.”

Bertrand never saw the difference so when she let him prepare his own dishes he used his jar of garlic and horrors, some dried onion he had picked up somewhere.

“That's awful,” she said.

“When we're married, you'll do most of the cooking,” he said, “but I can take care of things when you're gone or pregnant. The kids will have to eat something.”

Marriage? Pregnant? Kids? How many? She said nothing.

When it came to religion, he was a Catholic and she was an agnostic. She thought no wars were ever started in the name of agnosticism while at the same time she could hold out hope that there was indeed something after death.

She was pro-choice and he wasn't, though he thought birth control was a good thing in their case, at least until he was more established in his job and she could get pregnant. Not in her plans, she thought but kept mum about that. She could see the relationship was going nowhere but for the time being, the sex was good and she could cook for someone who appreciated her talent.

Kathy didn't think Bertrand would be around on Super Bowl Sunday. Usually he went off to a sports bar with his friends to cheer on his team. She planned a thorough kitchen cleaning for the weekend.

“How about my friends come here on Sunday?” he asked. “You've got a big screen and I've been bragging about your cooking. Maybe you can put on a spread? I'll give you the money for it. And I'll help with the cooking. Not much to it really. Brats and potato chips will do.”

“No, I'll do the cooking. You and your friends can enjoy yourselves.”

It was a great chance to try out new recipes and show off her skills. She thought of opening her own catering business. Maybe a football spread would sell. She settled on an international menu. Sweet and sour meatballs using peaches as a sweetener, Reuben fritters made with corned beef and two cheeses, shrimp egg rolls.

She woke up at sunrise with a sneeze followed by a cough. She took a nostrum right away but it left her in a daze. No matter. She chopped, she stirred, she broiled, she baked. Bertrand wandered through the kitchen, stirring and looking in pots.

In the end, there were fourteen of his buddies there. Instead of drinking the appropriate wines she placed on the sideboard, they brought a keg of beer and some Styrofoam glasses. They even had paper plates and napkins, but she set those aside and used her second best china and cloth serviettes.

During the pre-game show, she began with her hors d'oeuvres which she put on a tray and placed on the coffee table. The men ignored her as the game began. She noticed they were cheering the Vikings and booing the Patriots, whoever they were. When she checked back, her perfect hors d'oeurvres tray was virtually untouched, even the deviled eggs and the ham and Guyere pinwheels. The honey-mustard dipping sauce had been dipped into once, there were some drops on the side, but the rest remained.

Then it was halftime. The football fans went through her neatly displayed buffet line, grabbing, and shoving things in their mouth.

“Aarrgh,” one said and spit out an egg roll on a serviette.

“Dammit,” another one said, and dropped the baked brie in puffed pastry on the floor.

“What is this shit?” a chubby guy in sweats said gazing at the smoked salmon. “You said she was a good cook!”

That was when Kathy blew her nose, used an inhaler and tasted.

Garlic. There was garlic in everything.

“What the hell?”

“I helped out.” Bertrand waved his jars around. “I thought garlic was good in everything.”

Kathy began to cry. The men glared at her.

“Isn't that just like a woman.”

“Isn't there anything else we can eat?”

“Not worth crying about,” Bertrand said. “I am so sorry,” he said but not to her. “Back in a minute.” He rushed to the corner store and was soon back with bags of chips and dips.

But that was it for Kathy. As the men happily ate their junk food and swilled beer, she threw her buffet in the trash and washed up. By the fourth quarter, she was in the room, rooting for the Patriots. 

When the men ogled the cheerleaders and made cracks about getting in their pants, she told them they were sexist pigs and to shut up about it in her house.

When there was a news break about the debt ceiling, she espoused her liberal views. “It all began with Reagan and that idiot Bush finished us off. It was those two wars.” She showed them a photo someone took of her at a peace rally.

She talked about her career. “By the time I'm forty, I intend to be president of my firm.”

“When will you find time for children?” Bertrand asked.

“There won't be any,” she said.

Bertrand and his friends left after the game. She looked in the bathroom. His toothbrush was gone.

So was his jar of garlic.