By Chuck Waldron
I was singing
a silent song, holding the scissors
tightly. Looking at the back of his
head, I thought about him with that woman.
Clip.
Clip.
Clip.
“Ouch, stop— ”
It was all he
said, but it was enough. I kept cutting his hair.
“Ouch, what
the–”
“Situp straight,” I said.
“Why did you
use souring milk on my cereal? You knew
it had turned. You could smell it.”
“Had it
turned,” hiding a smile?
Clip.
Clip.
Clip.
“Ouch.
I know you did that on purpose."
“I’m sorry.”
But I wasn't, thinking about him with that woman. She probably has lips
like Julia Roberts, and I quickly pushed that thought to the side.
He stood
abruptly, scattering the coffee mugs and sugar bowl. Shards skittered
over the tile floor.
“Enough,” the
word ricocheted around the room.
“What’s
enough?”
“I know where
I can get a real haircut,” he snorted,
“What’s
stopping you,”
My scissors shaped a Zorro in the air.
My scissors shaped a Zorro in the air.
Snorting, I
watched his pitiable attempt at
dignity. He paused, waving an extended middle finger, and walked out the door.
I replaced
the scissors in the drawer and didn't cry.
# # #