Elsa, part one

A hot, thick, wet breeze swaddled Elsa in an uncomfortable blanket. The second she stepped off the plane, her desperate wish was for a breath of cool, dry air. How do people live like this; like they are underwater? The days of the masked pandemic had nothing over tropical summer humidity.  

The drive was long to her sister’s place, as Elsa remembered. A rain forest to one side, and the Pacific Ocean to the other, all along a winding two-lane highway. The open car window blasted relatively cooler air in her face, which gave Elsa the time needed to adapt to the climate. She took in one deep breath after another and slowly exhaled after each one.

Finally arrived at her destination, Elsa dug around her carry-on for the set of keys sent to her, then thanked the Uber driver.

“You good?” the driver helpfully asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I don’t have another ride. Happy to walk in with you if you want.”

“No, thanks,” Elsa told the woman. “I’m fine.”

The exterior was a different color than before, but otherwise, Elsa’s sister’s house was much as she remembered it. But, the months of vacancy, especially in a tropical climate, showed its wear. Ants crawled in long lines on just about every countertop and cupboard door. Green Geckos scurried across every wall. Elsa remembered an aggressive spider, smaller than your garden variety, with short legs, bulky girth, and a bite that would make a mosquito envious. The memory made her wince.

That time before, when she came to visit, by the time she arrived at her sister’s, she was covered in bites from any number of venomous vermin. Elsa’s sister quickly ushered her to the bathroom, insisting she immediately shower with citronella soap, then get lathered up with her husband’s black goop (a concoction he brewed up to draw out the venom of any number of tropical insect bites), and afterward come curl up on the couch beside her with a G&T and watch some TV.  

“Just what you need, baby girl.”

Sitting on her sister’s couch that time, a short 45 minutes after her arrival, in an agitated state of itchy discomfort, Elsa silently wept. Staring out at the magnificent panoramic view of the Pacific from her sister’s home high atop an ocean bluff, Elsa thought, whomever it was that first sold the idyllic version of an exciting, exotic trip to Polynesia? What a fucking bastard.

So, here she stood, a twelve years later, in the middle of that unpleasant memory. This time, however, every centimeter of her body was covered in a rich citronella lotion.

“OK house!” Elsa yelled. “Your new mama is here! And, I’m having none of it! Umm-umm. No sir.”

Two geckos scurried to the corners of the walls. Elsa turned her gaze downward and stomped at a group of ants, who also scurried. She scanned the room for those damn spiders.

Back and forth, forward and back

Yolanda gazed up, watching how the early morning sunlight created colorful patterns on the ceiling as the oscillating fan gently swayed the stained glass adornment that hung from the bedroom window’s sill. The blue, red and green glass twisted one way and then the other, left to right to left, again and again. It reminded her of playing at being a clothes washer when she was a little girl, arms out, fingers touching her shoulders, twisting her torso back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth.

“Fuck it,” Robert said as he rolled off her.

He lay on his back, an arm flung over his eyes. Yolanda decided it would be unfair to comment on the irony of his remark. Instead, she turned over and straddled him, and though it was obvious it was not going to happen, she nevertheless attempted a few gentle kisses to his cheek, tip of the nose, side of the neck.

As she began to scoot down, Robert abruptly sat up, pushed her off and got out of bed. He pulled open the drawer of his dresser with such force, it frightened her a bit. Robert’s mood was more and more prickly these days, but this was the first time Yolanda had ever seen him in a rage. He put on a pair of sweats, and walked out of the bedroom without a word or look toward her.

She wondered if he blamed her. Morning sex had become such a routine over the years, something he wanted whether she was into it or not, that she had become complacent. If he didn’t necessarily require her interest, why should she even bother to reciprocate? Were she given the choice, she would rather have the extra bit of sleep.

Robert banged about in the kitchen, slamming drawers, clanging utensils and bowls. Then a moment of silence fell. It was Yolanda’s cue to get up. As she put on the t-shirt and short jammies from the night before, she heard Robert walking down the hall to the bedroom. His footfall was heavy and rushed. Yolanda swept up her long hair into a messy bun and waited.

Standing in the bedroom doorway, Robert held up the old, broken hand blender. He face was pure anger.

“I asked you to please take better care of shit!”

“That is the old one,” Yolanda replied in a quiet, measured tone, eyebrows raised. “Remember? You said the cost to have it repaired was more than buying a new one. Hmm?”

Robert shoved the hand blender in the air toward Yolanda, as if a weapon to threaten her. As he began to speak, their young son stepped into view, and gave Robert a hug around his leg. Father and son looked at one another, both a little confused. From the kitchen came the sound of another blender.

“Pancakes!” their son triumphantly declared.

“C’mon,” Yolanda took her son’s hand, pushing past Robert. “Let’s help your sister make pancakes.”

“With chocolate chips!”

As her son skipped ahead, Yolanda was struck at being caught between the pure joy of a little boy with something as simple as pancakes to look forward to and the senseless anger of a grown man creating nothing but regrets on which to look back.


The prompts this week are: She stared at Robert’s ceiling and wished she was on top; take care of your tools; blue glass