Jawbone
Sure, her friend says. That makes sense. But the other woman, Ella says. Her smile feels lopsided. It feels cracked. It must be a piece of my jaw, she thinks again. He was talking to her. He'd been talking to her all week, though he knew I didn't want that. He was fleeing, tail between his legs, and he fled to her. She spent the night when I was gone. He had her over. My things were still all over his apartment. He couldn't even wait until! left town. Her friend's face drops like a waterfall. Ella hates this part of the story. She tries to turn it into a joke: I didn't realize I was so easy to forget. She smiles, eyebrows up, sarcastic, followed by the punch line of her shoulders: a shrug. Her friend speaks: It's hard to imagine. It happened, says Ella. I left, says Ella. Well good riddance, says her friend. Ella can list the determined statements she's been hearing, each time she tells the story. You're better off without him. How could you ever trust him again? You can't. So move on. You're a strong woman. You don't need him. He's obviously got some serious problems. What a jackass. What an asshole. What a prick. Dick. Jerk. Bastard. Fucking shithead. Fucked up. Everything got so fucked up, wait: that is her own voice. She can't even see anymore what happened. He chose to need someone else. Not her. Probably had too much coffee she thinks, as she lies wide-eyed in bed that night, sweeping her tongue past the crag in her mouth, the matterhom. She touches the spot with a fingertip. It feels bigger now, like it is rising from her gum, emerging. Maybe it is working itself out? She touches it again, wondering. The gum around it feels swollen, the corner of her mouth throbs just slightly, enough to keep her awake. She gives up trying to make herself comfortable. She reads the book review. She takes some Nyquil. She falls asleep. On Monday morning she phones the dentist. She speaks to a hygienist. Ella can picture her commercial smile on the other end of the line. It happens sometimes, the hygienist says brightly. It should work itself out. If it's still bothering you, by, oh, Wednesday or Thursday, call back and we'll squeeze you in. This doesn't make Ella feel better. Don't worry about it, the hygienist says. Ella can smell her, saccharine, through the phone. It will get easier. You'll see. Each day will be a little better. He's obviously not right for you anyway. Just forget him. Ella hangs up the phone. ON
THE PLANE RIDE HOME AFTER THAT DISASTROUS
Summer - Fall 2006
week there was hardly 47