Her Two Cents

I wonder if the author of “Eat My Shortbread” is the same as the one who wrote “Chew These Chaps” a few months back. 🙂 Either way, this short piece of fiction (?) or creative non-fiction (?) is certainly intriguing and worth a read-through. I have to wonder though, if a more accurate title might help (or perhaps this is a way of nose-thumbing those CraigsList “flaggers” who feel it’s their obligation to censor everything that doesn’t meet their guidelines?).

Missed Connections in Montréal

Eat My Shortbread

“I always regretted the fact that I didn’t have any exceptional brain activity. My memory is half decent, I can carry a tune alright. I once memorized all of the American presidents in order but when I try to do it now all I think about is Marilyn Monroe standing over a steal grate looking luscious in a caught-off-guard kind of way.”

“Would you say that that is your greatest regret?”

Renee stopped. “I don’t know if I understand your question actually, can you repeat it?”

“Sure.”

. . .

“What is the biggest sacrifice you have ever made?”

“What, like, in my life?”

. . .

“I. . .” Renee looked at her fingers. She stuck one in her mouth and started chewing on it aggressively. “There’s nothing. I’ve never made a sacrifice.”
As she said this a deep wave of regret and sadness washed over her. What the fuck, Renee. Never made a sacrifice? Make something up for fuck’s sake. You sound like a selfish asshole.

. . .

“There’s nothing, I’m sorry”

. . .

“Will you please say something?”

“Renee, do you know why you’re here?”

. . .

“Look, Dr. Palarmo, I have nothing against you personally, I’m sure you’re a really nice lady and you are probably like a normal person with a husband and some cute kids and stuff. I know I’m not really a bouquet of daisies, I just–whatever, I don’t know. . .” She stuck her hands between her thighs and slumped her shoulders down.

“Can you remember when you first started feeling self-conscious about your weight?”

“I don’t know, like 6th grade, 7th grade, I was at the People’s School. Whenever we had to change for gym I would feel like crazy bad about my body. I remember falling asleep at night and praying that I would wake up skinny. Like if I could just be skinny than my clothes would fit better, guys would like me, girls would respect me, it would be a different world for me.”

“Do you still feel this way?”

“I don’t know, not really. Dr. Palarmo, I don’t really want to talk today, can we cut the session short?”

“When you came in here you said you had an interesting dream last night, would you tell me about it?”

“Alright, ok. Well, I don’t really remember the whole thing. I was on a boat with my mom, dad, and sister, but everyone was younger. My dad had just caught a fish- a flounder, or, you know, a fluke, those flat guys with the faces on the sides’ of their body, you know, bottom dwellers. They were all cheering and shooting guns into the air. I slipped below deck. This guy, Victor, from my work, we were dating in the dream, and I was super in love with him and all that. We decided we were going to move to Toronto together and start a new life. We were bickering about what color we were going to paint our new place. You know, like a cute fight. . . Then he stopped. It started raining in the room. Everything was getting wet, my clothes, the carpet, the couch, I looked up and the milky way stretched over me and it was raining on me. He told me he was drowning in student debt and he was dying. He was sorry, he couldn’t come. He didn’t touch me.”

. . .

“Renee, are you alright?”

. . .

“Look through this, tell me what you see.” Dr. Palarmo handed Renee a small kaleidoscope. Renee pressed it to her eye.

Dr. Palarmo’s dark face and little glasses showed 50 times, sideways and upside down on front of Renee. She turned her head to look out the window, 50 oak trees swayed in different directions in front of one gray sky.