The first time he poisoned me was at a kitchen table just like yours. I tried not to disappoint him with my reaction. I waited several seconds before requesting a suitable amount of ipecac. He nodded at first, but edged the bottle out of reach. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the remaining seconds, I imagined a neighbor knocking on the door, then an EMT, then a team of EMTs pumping my stomach and handing me a lollipop when they were through, nudging me on the shoulder like attaboy<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n All in all it was painless. Minor discomfort at worst. <\/p>\n\n\n\n You must be thinking: Poison! In the twenty-first century?<\/em> But we weren\u2019t just gamboling about. We were on a schedule. Every precaution was taken. Nobody was culpable. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Sam once appeared on a game show and had cleaned up, enough to quit his job and concoct new ways of controlling his environment. This was his selected method.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Most friends never show up these days. But Sam and I were entangled. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Plus I was straining to believe in my own presence. Even the portrait framed in the hallway casts a dubious stare at my existence. I wasn\u2019t sure if I was making a dent in the world or if my time was receding in value.<\/p>\n\n\n\n After several months of customarily presenting myself before the poison cup, he texts me a questionable message: Everyone I\u2019ve seen today contains the same number of appendages.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n That\u2019s all I will ever hear from him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Legend has it Sam passed. Or faked his own death for financial purposes. Either way, the news dismantles me. It tampers with me more than any substance labeled with a Mr. Yuk sticker ever could. Needless to say, I do not manage to tame the urge of routine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I text Sam\u2019s number just to see what\u2019ll happen. I start with: Hello there.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n This is it. Here we are.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Who is this?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I collect myself. Any composure I can muster vanishes before I make the next move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But then another message appears. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Is this the window washer guy?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I do not have any formal training in window washing, but this only seems like a challenge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Yes.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019ve always been lucky when it comes to strangers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We arrange a time. I learn this person\u2019s whereabouts. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I don\u2019t stop there. Our subject today will be washing technique. Then the proper tools. I gather some microfiber cloths and a squeegee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her house is at the end of a suburb, right where it meets cow pasture. I drive by a few times and stake out the premises before our appointment. I watch cows cluster near a fence. Each hoof reverberates through my consciousness as it lands on solid ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When the day arrives, I\u2019m eager to see what I have to show for myself. Maybe we\u2019ll trade secret gestures or maybe I\u2019ll never see her again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Miranda and I walk around the exterior.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat did I tell you?\u201d I point at a distant window. \u201cA protuberance like that needs vigorous scrubbing.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n I tap the vinyl siding to prove it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For no particular reason, she leads me inside and shows me a heart-shaped box. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis is where I keep my candies. I leave them out for friends\u2026and for Dorothy.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She doesn\u2019t explain who Dorothy is. We move on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYup, this project will take several days,\u201d I say out of nowhere, \u201cthere\u2019s no question about that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There is, in fact, a question about that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She pulls a check out of her blouse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat should cover it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I fold the check into my pocket and loop my thumbs around my belt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n If this arrangement doesn\u2019t work out, I can always join the cows beside her property. I can live a new kind of life, one that doesn\u2019t involve time. I will low at minivans and scooters as they pass by. The cows will take a turn at flaying me, pulverizing my meat, and shaping me into little round patties. <\/p>\n\n\n\n ________<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire Hopple is the author of five books. Her fiction has appeared in<\/em> Wigleaf, <\/em>Vol. 1 Brooklyn, <\/em>Peach Mag, <\/em>Forever Mag, and others. She grew up in the woods of Western PA and currently lives in Asheville, NC. More at clairehopple.com<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"