by Jarod Powell
Jaime fell asleep in the black leather swivel, after his spark had cooled. At some point in the night, his mother removed his shoes and placed an old blanket onto his torso.
When he woke, he felt hung over and tired and immediately wanted to go back to sleep, but was sure
it was noon, at the earliest. He staggered into the kitchen to find his mother asleep at the counter. There were eggs burning in the skillet, filling the place with smoke. He rushed them over to the faucet, the resulting smolder loud and inconsiderate of the intense throb he had between his ears. His mother woke clumsily, whipping her messy mop of hair from the countertop, her eyes groggy and still covered in makeup, and her squint evidencing a dull ache. This jarring image, to Jaime, made her polished, detached demeanor look scuffed and raw. He saw how fragile the woman’s equilibrium actually was. In one of those flashes, he imagined how clingy a lover, sister, or daughter she may have been at his age.
She was dependent on men and on love. She fucks the breakfast up on purpose.
As she got up to make coffee, Jaime wondered if she had the same disillusionment that he had, and he also wondered if her behavior was a better way of dealing with that disappointment. Most of all, he won-
dered why he never understood something so obvious. If this had been simply shown to him, he may have rejected it as babble. Getting a glimpse of his mother in this way made him feel needed.
“God, what time is it?” Jaime’s mother slurred, focused only on not spilling the coffee, her back to him.
“I dunno,” Jaime said, picking up the previous day’s newspaper. “Not too late.”
Car Wash