Brainworm
By Mikki Aronoff
Sea of Love is looping through your head, that song that played at the 50’s singles party where you met, that time when you thought everything would be, if not just right, then at least long-lasting. You have two hours before you need to get to work, so you drive to the coast to scrub and buff your brain. You pull into the parking spot farthest away from people at your favorite beach. Flip-flops in one hand, diet Coke in the other, you amble down towards water’s foamy edge. The sand feels cool under your feet. You should do this more often. You stand and squint at the horizon. It seems farther away than you remember. You close one eye and touch the edge. Wet sand sucks and tugs at your toes. As a child, you thought an invisible sea monster was pulling you down. You panicked, looked back at your parents smoking and drinking on their beach towels. But they weren’t looking at you. You thought you’d be swallowed up and all that’d be left for them to cry over would be your pink striped bathing suit, so you panicked and screamed, and they finally turned their heads. But they just laughed. Later, when you and your friends are sitting in a booth at a bar swilling draught beer and exchanging stories of slights, you start with this one.
Earth Angel is now on repeat. For a moment, gulls and a dog with a stick borrow your attention. You pick up your pace. Flashes of sun are bouncing off the sand. Your sunglasses offer little protection against the spreading flares. Soon the entire stretch of beach is sparking like sun does off water. Grains of sand are fusing and little mirrors are popping up in all directions, flashing waves of indignities: your parents laughing at you, here, girls in high school pointing at your flat chest. A lover leaving. Another lover leaving. Your last lover leaving a week ago. The long stretch has coalesced into one vast looking glass, one massive affront. You flush from its heat. But this is nothing new.
The music is gone. You check your watch. You should’ve been back at work an hour ago, but the mirrors feel so familiar, and comfort is what you need right now. You’ll just stay here for a minute or two. You’ve been working so hard. You turn your back to reflections, to all the dismissals you have suffered, and face the open sky. You loosen the belt on your pink striped uniform, burrow your heels into wet sand, lie down, and wait for the next big wave.
THE END
Author Bio: Mikki Aronoff’s work appears in Tiny Molecules, trampset, Bending Genres, Milk Candy Review, Gone Lawn, Mslexia, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Citron Review, Atlas and Alice, and elsewhere. She’s received Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction nominations.