V is for anti-verbiage: Flash Fiction Tuesday

Fallen Dreams of East Broad Street

I am in my family's living room, zooming Barbie around the beige carpet in her pink convertible. Her blonde hair flails in the wind as I pull her up to Ken's place, a bunch of pillows strategically stacked against the couch to make a house.

“Honk, honk” I yell, as I push Barbie's hand against the convertible's horn.

My other hand waddles Ken out of his white house and to the passenger's side door, which he doesn't open, but jumps over to get into the passenger seat. I force their heads together and make kissing sounds. As I drive Barbie and Ken into the sunset, desire creeps over my five year old body.

I want.

long blond hair

a boyfriend to kiss

a car to drive.

So I take my mother's car keys from the table while she is talking on the phone and go for a spin. But when I stick her house key and car key into the electrical outlet, the engine only backfires.

***

Sixteen years later, I am stealing jellybeans from an open apartment on Oglethorpe Square with the wife of the man I am sleeping with. We taste all of the different colors. I put a black jellybean in my mouth, bite down, and promptly spit it out on the hardwood floors.

“You don't like the licorice?” she asks, and I trade her black for red.

Later that night, when she argues with her husband, she turns to me and says, “It's not your fault.” And I believe her.

***

The thing I realize about pain while staring down at the new Mickey and Minny Mouse bandages the doctor has wrapped around my hand is that it is relative. My mother sees my imaginary driving as a near death experience. I see it as an awesome driving lesson that ended with my favorite cartoon characters practically tattooed to my hands. The next week is spent with Mickey declaring his love for Minny in afternoon puppeteer shows.

***

My legs seem to be controlled by some unknown being as I walk to meet him in the dark, where no one will see, where we can sneak around, and play pretend. It is only when he pulls me close to him so he can put his hand on my breast that I realize I am not five anymore. And this is not a game.

***

I am disappointed when the bandages come off and I can't make believe anymore.

***

The worst thing about pretending is coming back to reality, only to realize all the Barbie doll dreams never actually existed. What's horrific about make believe is waking up in need of urgent care, because I've electrocuted myself all for the sake of an imaginary ride.