Daisy

I saw her in front of the kitchen window. She was crying again as she was washing the dishes in the sink.

It happens a lot. I’ve never seen Daisy not cry on weekends and summers when we didn’t have school.

It wasn’t that her family was dysfunctional. Mr. and Mrs. Medina are among the kindest people I have ever met. They have two other sons, Donald and Dean. Dean is in my grade and I know him a little. He’s a great kid. You could tell he’s nice not just because his family has money, but that his parents brought him up well.

Daisy is the eldest. She doesn’t attend regular school nowadays. Sometimes I would see her with her mother in their garden going over books. Or a tutor would give her exams at the country club periodically.

I asked Dean about Daisy but he doesn’t like talking about his sister. Maybe he doesn’t want to.

I’ve seen it happen not less than five times. Sometimes Daisy would start throwing things around the house and she’d yell at her parents. Then a closed van would pull up and take her someplace I didn’t know.

When she comes back, she’s a different person. She’d stare into space and be all quiet.

One day I was riding my bike home from school and I saw Daisy lying on the lawn. She was listening to her iPod, earphones in her ears, her eyes closed. What was wrong with this picture? She was frothing at the mouth.

Alarmed, I called out to my Mom. She called the hospital.

Daisy ingested insecticide that day. I never saw her again after that.

Corn Star

He left his night light on in the bedroom. He put on his tone on tone blue bathrobe and his lambskin lined napa leather bedroom slippers.

She was sleeping soundly on the bed. He suspected she was stoned last night when they hooked up at Hemingway’s. She lay face down, her long mane of blonde hair cascading beautifully on her smooth bare back.

He was going to prepare his red wine adobo, famous among his friends for its stick to the bones flavor and the whimsical stewed grapes he uses as garnish.

He only had vague memories of last night. He was getting sloshed at the bar to celebrate his divorce. It took him three years to extricate himself from his ex-wife. They couldn’t agree on how to split his inheritance after they parted ways. He promised himself he would demand a prenup next time he gets hitched. If he gets hitched again.

He was going to wake her up, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name. He peeked into his bedroom and was happy to see her awake.

She was covering her mouth and frantically rummaging through the sheets.

In the afternoon light her wrinkles were more obvious than he wanted them to be. Her blonde locks were thinning in places.

“Anything wrong?” he asked.

“I can’t seem to find my dentures,” she said, showing blackened bicuspids. They were all the teeth she had.

He went straight into the kitchen and dumped his special adobo into the garbage bin. He put on tan chinos and a white polo shirt.

“Okay. I have an errand to run. Just let yourself out okay? Bye.”

He didn’t wait for her reply.

Madamn/madman

It wasn’t that her steak was not medium rare as she directed the maitre’d who had to take her order because it was a full house tonight.

Her conniption was caused by her husband's philandering and this was merely the last straw.

At least, that’s what she wanted to believe.

That was why she poured the 1,000 euro per bottle aperitif on the poor server's head.

She wasn’t happy with that.

She set him ablaze with her platinum Zippo lighter.

If truth be told, she snuffed a bit of cocaine before her date night with her
husband.

Because she was miserable.

And none of the material trappings she acquired ever made her happy.

The more she had, the more trapped she felt.

She wanted to escape.

No, she needed to escape.

But where?

They had kids and her husband didn’t believe in divorce.

She’d be damned if she would waste her life with the brainless, albeit wealthy
nincompoop she married.

Then again, maybe she wouldn’t.