The only time Margaret held still was when the neighbor girl came to paint her nails. Bright red, her favorite color. It matched a lipstick she remembered. Either she, her mother, or her best friend Lorena had worn it. It was a nice color.
“Ouch. You’re hurting me.”
“Sorry. I won’t trim the cuticle back then, OK?”
She was nice. The neighbor girl. Except when she made her shower or told her she smelled because she hadn’t worn deodorant that day. Or said that the house was a mess and brought in a stranger to bag papers up and take them out to the curb. She had yelled that day. How dare she come into her house like that. She locked them out. But the neighbor girl got back in. She must have gotten a spare key from under the flowerpot out front.
The lotion smelled good. She was getting a hand massage. She liked getting her nails done. Her nails always sounded grand and dignified afterward, tapping on the table. There was music playing, something by Frank Sinatra. She loved Frankie, always had. Married Roberto because he was Northern Italian and looked like him, but also because he was kind. She began to hum.
“Good song choice, huh? Glad you like it. I got you the CD so you can listen to it whenever you want.”
Today was nice. Not like the other day when a doctor had said she needed help at home. I have all the help I need, she said. I’m fine.
The girl nodded, and capped the bottle of red polish, finished with her job. She picked up a People Magazine and put it on the table.
“I know your eyes aren’t so good, so do you want me to read to you? Look, it says here that an actress called Lindsay Lohan is going to be doing a movie with Jamie Lee Curtis. You know, A Fish Called Wanda? You said you thought that movie was funny.”
Margaret nodded. A Fish Called Wanda was funny. She liked the awkward scene where the male love interest spoke broken Italian on command to Jamie Lee Curtis as they were about to make love. Roberto had laughed at that one too. She tried to speak but nothing came out. Her head hurt and her hands shook.
The neighbor girl looked concerned.
“Mom. Mom? Are you OK?”
Sarah Flocken is a fiction author, PR person, comedian, improviser, and pun contest host (yes, it’s a thing) from San Diego, CA. To learn more about her and her writing, please visit sarahflocken.com.
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