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Below is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, The Symphony of Life. Enjoy. Keith
July 2nd, 1984 is a day I will never forget. I stare at the sun melting into the horizon. The evening air smells ripe, with a sultry thickness southerners are accustomed to, like tasting sweet iced tea and annual visits to the cemetery. Mother drives me home from the airport. I settle back against the seat, aware of its comfort, and close my eyes, intent on shutting out the drudge of the last four days. I want nothing more than to think about getting out of my sweat-drenched clothes, which feel horrible on my skin, and washing off a long day of airports and flight changes. Mother convinced me that I needed to go with her to Atlanta for a small business seminar called “Mind Your Own Business.” The whole experience has been ridiculous and trite as the title. Truth is, I’ve resented our family business for as long as I can remember. I never intended to be stuck between the isles of groceries and shelves of bagels and donuts. My grandparents willed the store to my parents, and the business became the favored child. Like a dutiful child, I spent every day after school, every weekend, and every summer day exhausted and looking after the shop. Spending a week of my two-week annual vacation bored as hell at a seminar is the farthest thing I’ve wanted to do. The only bright spot over the course of these four days has been the fact that the presenter became ill and cancelled the last two days of the seminar. If I’d known my life would be full of depression several hours later, I would have stayed, found a cheap place to rent, and buried my head under the covers. I open my eyes. We round the corner and come to a stop in front of the house. I focus on the lights shining through the living room window. “Dammit, Roscoe, you chicken!” I clumsily step out of the car and walk up the sidewalk, deciding not to chastise Roscoe for keeping the lights on. He’s afraid of the dark. We’ve had the “why do you keep every light on in the house?” conversation so many times throughout our six-year marriage. No lights shine from the bedroom. I surmise that Roscoe is likely asleep, which is perfect. Chitchat isn’t what I want right now. Walking into the house, my cold fingers find the switch. I flick off the lights, walking down the long hallway leading to our bedroom. I maneuver my way through the darkness, my nails scratching along the wall and making a hideous sound with every step I take. Minutes later, I walk into the room and kick off my shoes, turning on the small desk lamp on the dresser. I glance at the outline of a body lying across the bed. The meager light makes it difficult to see, however. My eyes acclimate. I realize it isn’t Roscoe. A skinny, smooth body lies on its stomach. The back straps of a sequined bra gleam.
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AuthorKeith Kelly currently lives in Rio Rancho New Mexico. Archives
October 2020
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