Monday
Alicia Rodriguez
I smoke a cigarette huddled under a broken neon sign, the snow under my feet reflecting the green light above me. I can hear her feet crunching on the ground as she approaches me, the same time as always.
“You know I used to work here,” she says brightly. “It made me happy.”
“I can’t say the same,” I whisper, looking at the sky.
“Happiness is relative.” She moves on the balls of her feet before sitting on the milk crate no one can be bothered to get rid of.
“I mean, look at me. All I ever wanted to do in life was leave this town, run so fast until I fell, but I never left. I mean, it allows me the time to see my mom on Monday.” I take a cigarette from my pocket and hand it to her. She doesn’t question the act as she motions for a lighter out of habit.
“Yeah, what is that like?” She asks as I hand her one; she looks down at it, thinking of something, but the memory never bursts open for her to comment. Instead, she stares down at the lighter until finally putting it to use.
I sigh, brushing the hair out of my face, “I go there to remember her face, to smell the house that was once my home. Before I step inside, she’ll comment on the flowers that keep dying in the front yard. I don’t think they ever actually lived a season.”
“It’s too cold for flowers.” She laughs, and it urges me to continue my rant.
“Besides the point. She’ll tell me the same things: the dog got out and Dad’s an asshole, and I’ll go, ‘yeah, that sucks, Mom,’ and she’ll look back at me with a smile on her face to say, ‘I don’t have any kids,’ and I’ll look back at her and go, ‘Yeah, that sucks, Mom.’ That part always haunts me; I replay it in my head. She had me so late… I feel robbed of her best years.”
“What happened to your dad?” The smoke from her cigarette rolls up into the sky, dancing along the neon lights that she once looked at and smoked her troubles away.
“They got divorced ten years ago, not like she remembers it, but he’s halfway across the world doing God knows what all while my mom doesn’t remember having me and he doesn’t care.” I shrug. “I wonder if my happiness is relative.”
Another woman stands a few feet behind us, yelling from the sidewalk that they must get going. She looks over her shoulder, unsure.
“I think that’s your taxi driver,” I comment, and it encourages her to stand up.
“I guess it’s time for me to clock out. You know, I wish I had had kids; maybe then I could give you an answer. Thank you for the cigarette.” She stomps out the half-done cigarette as I look down at mine, already burnt up.
“Yeah, that sucks.” The rest of the sentence gets stuck in my throat as I wave the other woman a silent thanks, their chatter and feet slowly disappearing. “I’ll see you on Monday,” I mumble, but she’s so far away; it doesn’t matter.
Alicia Rodriguez
Alicia Rodriguez is a hobby writer who, growing up, would daydream about stories they could come up with. Now a college student majoring in English literature, not much has changed except those characters are now on paper. While not writing, Alicia enjoys their time going on hikes with their family and corgi.