How about a Hawaiian punch?

‘Don’t get me wrong, everything is fine. It’s in no way perfect, but I don’t think that I can expect perfection at this point—it’s going to have to do, you know what I mean?’ I pause to take a drag from the filthy cigarette that I am sneaking behind my husband’s back—it is disgusting and the smoke that I exhale chokes me and leaves me feeling slightly green. Nice buzz though. Who am I? I don’t smoke—it is a disgusting habit. It’s the wine I’ve been drinking, and the comfort of having my friends around me—they too are smoking. The weather has been beautiful in such a way that I have been pleasantly distracted by it all day. ‘Like I said, it’s going to be fine, we’ll work it out—I’ve had so much to tell you about what happened and I just haven’t had a single moment alone with you. I’m glad we all got together today; the kids are really excited to see each other.’ I come to my senses and realize that I’m not enjoying the smoke and toss it unfinished over the deck railing. Peering down from the deck I can see the children frolicking at the edge of the duck pond with their nets and plastic cups. They are shrieking and dancing around the little pool like Indians from a child’s story; some are coated up to their knees with a slick of quick-drying mud. My daughter is perched on a rock in the middle of the pond—waving bugs away from her face frantically and trying to capture tadpoles. The echoes from their cries of celebration and excitement drift up to us, secluded on the outermost deck, nestled by the crowns of trees and impending dusk. I am happy, and I breathe deeply. This is how contentment feels—how it really feels. Not the temporary kind I fool myself into believing to staunch the discontent, this is real and consistent and from sources tangible.

Marley nudges me with her sandal and prompts me to continue, ‘so what did you discuss, how is it going to happen—do you need me to do anything? Of course you know I’m going to be there, but I’m not certain how Dale is going to feel. He might feel…conflicted’ I smile and nod, inspect my fingernails in my lap. It’s in no way a happy smile, just a knowing one. I know. “I don’t think we’re there yet—but what I really need is—‘

Hieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! A waxen yet oddly luminous face suddenly floats over me; lips pulled back in a huge rictus grin painted garishly like an overripe watermelon. I struggle to piece together my thoughts, to store away my conversation that I need to have so badly with Marley and now…who…is…this? I know…the lips. Her face, I can feel something click internally. It’s Fruit-punch Lips. But it can’t be—this is a safe place. How is Fruit-punch Lips here…at Jina with a J’s house? A train person has defiled my most sacred of inner sanctums. A commuter?!

‘Hieeee! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! What train do you take now? These are my daughters, Flopsie and Mopsie.’ I stare, open-mouthed and struck dumb. I can hear sounds coming out of her mouth in fluctuating high-pitched intonations, like sounds a sea creature would make. I smile weakly at the daughters and try to regain my composure. I must look ridiculous but my shock is deep. I can see Beth and Julia looking over Fruit-punch’s shoulder trying to gage my reaction. They are both puzzled and concerned; Beth, however, is amused. One of the daughters is mouthing a hotdog, bun and all—she fits its entirety into her mouth in one swallow. I feel faint. She chews with her mouth open and they watch me with overly large vacuous eyes. I have cottonmouth. I need to swallow.

I smile. A large scary smile erupts across my face and I greet her warmly. I swear I deserve a small but dangerously heavy golden statuette of a man for this performance. The daughters continue to stare at me as if I have a clown nose on my face. Mopsie uses the back of her hand to wipe her nose. I smile bigger and brighter. I should be on toothpaste commercial with starbursts of light glinting off from my teeth, complete with ZING! Sound effects.

Her daughters race off to take part in the mass slaughter of tadpoles all in the name of science and Fruit-punch lips takes the seat next to Marley and immediately sets in to tell us every painful detail from her recent break-up. She spares us nothing as we both smile politely and nod our heads in unison at all the right moments. It is indeed a painful and dramatic story. I consume two glasses of wine in the time she takes away from me. She is a very animated talker, gesticulating and rolling her eyes as she narrates her tale of many woes. Why doesn’t she notice that we are not really interested in hearing this? Can’t she see that we look trapped and slightly panicked? How come no one notices other people’s feelings? I become trapped with my discomfort in a mind already too crowded—I hear none of her laments and feel for them even less. She keeps talking, never pausing, always smiling—even when she is calling someone a bastard. Suddenly she squeals and rushes over to someone else who has just arrived. Her chair legs scrape across the plank floor as she races off.

Marley and I exchange a look of relief and waste no time in making our way down the stairs towards the lower lawn where the pond is. She sighs and thanks god for the intervention, elbows me and says ‘Let’s continue while we can. What did you do with her clothing?’ My head swims. ‘Nothing, I’m done talking about it—I cannot let myself be that. Done.’