Sudden Bigger Lady

Casey Wiley
| Fiction

 

She tells herself dickhead’s gotta go because she is everything she is and more without his dirt hands sweat stink licorice breath hot like fire Come ere baby you know I love you. Get away get go, she thinks. Go, go trash! Don’t touch me don’t look at me go. She longs to grow big grow strong again (hasn’t been so long has it?) so she’s gonna tell him tomorrow get out or if not the next day—
And so then week next during one long commercial for a blanket with sleeves he gets up monster and unsteady in the trailer for another Natty and she follows shaking breathing tight why didn’t she buy that gun slip it in the drawer with the thousand twist ties with bottle openers bottle caps corks pull tabs the drawer with the picture of her and those two little babies she says behind him dull fridge light cast out squeezing her eyes shut gripping the stove bracing for it Go on get don’t love you don’t need you anymore never and believes it semi nough waiting for the thunder her screaming her crying shut up shut up shut it down but all she feels against her is like crawling through air only easier—she’s just a kid stumbling through woods trying to keep up with Dierdre her cousin oldern her Dierdre fourth grade looking for owl hollows throw sticks at rocks at Dierdre letting her catch up letting her throw the first stick.
Just a kid just a—
And but opening her eyes in the trailer and dickhead he’s gone poof screen door open wide a cleaned wound and the space
is
hers.
There she is dancing singing beautiful enough in the tiny kitchen lone free a sudden bigger lady grown that moment one inch one foot two trailer can barely hold her god damn size elevens in a seven shoebox bust the seams and quieting sudden his football on the TV referee whistles shrill sweat stink licorice linger ghost lurking and clutching a steak knife checking silent like air only easier the closet piled with mail bathroom he could barely fit in and finally their bedroom—her bedroom her trailer her life her breath—and finding it empty she drops down on the water bed and belting out singing this time that new song the teen girls squealing down the way bout—

 

Casey Wiley’s work has been published in Passages North, Hunger Mountain, Hobart, Ep;phany, Barrelhouse, Gulf Stream, Salt Hill, and The Chronicle of Higher Education, among others. In addition to teaching writing at Penn State, he loves gardening and exploring Pennsylvania with his family.

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