One Page #23

Paula screamed at the girl across the counter, and then blushed and felt terrible. She apologized over and over again, saying she didn’t know what came over her. But she knew. She just pretended to herself and everyone else that she didn’t. It had been a long week and most things had gone badly and the sky felt black and like it was pressing down on her from above like God laying his great hand on her head and squishing her into the floor. She didn’t believe in God, but that was what it felt like anyway. If Paula did believe in God, it wouldn’t be a man, and he wouldn’t have a hand, and he wouldn’t be squishing her but lifting her up, giving her a hand and a moment of forgiveness. But in this moment all she felt was a great weight and all she saw was a dimming world that glimmered and faded into her skull so thick with mothballs and smelling of salt. The girl across the counter looked at her wide-eyed, not knowing what to make of the crazy screaming and the raging fists and the trembling hairs on the top of the woman’s head. Paula wanted to faint, only for a moment of relief, a pause that would allow her to think and let go and possibly shed the weight that burdened her. She thought of cacti in the desert and she thought of paper bags that crumpled and she thought of lentil stew simmering on the stove with tomatoes and herbs and onions. She looked at the woman behind the counter, blushed more deeply, and stepped out of line and headed for the door. People stared at her and a little girl in a pink tutu reached out a hand towards her and a dog watched her with woeful eyes through the front door. The dog moved when she opened the door, standing aside as if afraid, and she felt the sun hit her face with a force that almost made her take a step back, but she moved forward and closed her eyes a moment as she walked. When she opened them she was free of the stares and the pitying glances and the embarrassment and she looked for a way out. She wanted root beer, and a wedge of lime, and a strong shot or two of tequila, even though she didn’t drink any longer and hadn’t for years. It interfered with her medication. She fingered the small oval orange pills in her pocket that she brought with her everywhere in case she needed them. She took one now, swallowing without water. She thought of the time she had been caught in a rainstorm far from home and the orange pills in her pocket had disintegrated and stained her shorts orange. She had needed one then, but they were gone and she wondered if she sucked at her shorts pockets whether she would get any of the relief the pills offered or whether she would only end up with a mouthful of fuzz and lint.