We don’t listen, we can’t hear, we laugh, we mourn, we forget. We say what the fuck like you do. We say no when the answer is yes. We wear Depends. We buy them at Walmart because who cares who knows what? The girl bagging our groceries is thinking about her boyfriend and what did he mean last night when he said that will he call now I hate my hair will this shift never end if Dad leaves if he doesn’t and that old woman with the leaky bladder she never smiles but god what a way to go.
In the elevator, she pressed “3” for Silver and China, but when she stepped out, there was no sign of wedding finery, no bridal registry. It was a warm day, tropical. Her heels sunk into sand. A breeze ruffled her skirt. Her hat sailed away into the spindrift. Then came the ukuleles. Then the steel guitars, the dancers, the singers, “Aloha.” Was there a way back? No. She saw a pig on a spit, smelled the sizzling pork. She could feel the lei around her neck, the warmth from the torches that were lit once the sun set for good.
Linda Lowe's stories and poems have appeared in Outlook Springs, Gone Lawn, The New Verse News, What Rough Beast, Tiny Molecules, A Story in 100 Words, and others.