Auburn Circle
Teresa walked over to where her father’s old record player sat in the corner. She pulled the needle to the right and watched as the black disk spun and wobbled. For a moment, all she could hear was the soft mechanical whirrings of the spinning track— and then, from outside, her son’s guttural scream: Get off my back, slut! Johnny’s voice dissipated into a mass of snarls, and then she heard the muffled crunch of rubber soles in snow. Something raked across the wooden boards of the front porch. Teresa cringed again, lowering the needle down onto the record. The gentle first notes of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 rose and floated around her like late summer leaves swept up in a whirlwind. The doorknob turned a quarter inch and then stopped. She reached down with her spoon and dipped out a large bite of pistachio ice cream from the carton sitting well-behaved on the couch, moaning like a cow
in heat as the soft lump slid down her throat. She allowed her body to fall against the wall, eyes closing to the soaring crescendo of flutes and horns. The banging on the door blended easily into the symphonic roar of waves. The runny noses and shivering, grimecovered hands could be, if not forgotten, easily ignored simply by keeping her eyes shut very, very tight. She was standing on the back deck of a seaside bar, the pink sun playing in the rippling folds of her sarong, light blue, riding low on her hips. Phillip was humming but he didn’t know it, his fingers busy twirling a lock of hair at the nape of her slender neck. She took the drink from his hand and set it on the rail. Then, smiling mischievously, she ran—down the steps, across the sand, and finally, with a squeal, into the ocean. She felt the warm salt water rock against her tan body. She tasted it in her mouth and in his, and her ribs ached with life.
“Scratch and Structure” by Laura Andreades 11