Nervous Scraps
Molly had an odd habit of picking at her arms when she was nervous, her body was riddled with what she referred to as “All the pains in this world”, an unsightly scrapbook of all the failures she had ever set herself up for. She had herself tied down to this place, not because she wanted him, but because she knew he needed her. Without deep thought, she hid her discomfort in between nervous shuffles in her seat and effortless sighs. For the time being, this was home.
Greg came home with a crash, the sounds of garbage cans spilling out into the street meant he had been drinking. “The weed is on the couch”, cracking the bedroom door just enough for his whispers to leak in, “is everything alright?”
“I’m just a little off tonight is all, I..”, Greg shut the door before she had a chance to finish, “I love you…”
Greg would tie up loose ends with bills and finish the night smoking a joint on the back porch. “Where are you Molly”, crushing the roach beneath his foot, “I need you back here with me…”.
Molly started her mornings with a line of coke off the kitchen counter, lifting her head up to catch a glimpse of the sun rising down the street, her “Good Morning” from God. Whoever was keeping the skies in motion had a hand in holding her life together, at least the bits and pieces hanging from threads to the falling stars she made her prayers to.
Afterward she would wash the dishes Greg left, it was not uncommon for him to eat alone at night, scrubbing away furiously holding back tears. She was supposed to be a model, a singer, a movie star, no… a mother. All her dreams had been buried in the backyard the day she agreed to marry Greg, albeit with the understanding that if their lives found different paths, they would part without hesitation. That was 10 years ago, and she was just now beginning to understand what everyone meant when they told her, “18 is just too young to be married”.
When Greg came into the kitchen, their reunion was short-lived. Molly hung over a cup of jasmine tea crushing cinnamon sticks with her fingers. Greg put his arms around her from behind, giving her a goodbye kiss on the cheek before he made his “rounds” for the day. Neither spoke a word to each other, the routine was killing them.
Yet, in an odd way, their silence was a reaffirmation that their love life was still working.
He took a glance back at her, stepping out the door, grinding his teeth with frustration. “You’re not the one I married”, he wanted to say aloud. Indeed, the emotional resonance that held them together had forced a quiet change in her soul, only surfacing at the bottom of pill bottles.
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