Pressing Pause
5:43 pm
She heard the wind before she felt it. The low, ominous growl, making the leaves of the nearest oak tree quiver in fright. The warning gave her enough time to stop the flimsy sheet of paper from fleeing just as the leaves were trying to do. Fingers sprawled to the edge of the margins, she let out a low, long breath of air. She would have run after the paper, regardless, but nature’s merciful warning saved her a humiliating scramble across the brown, dead grass. It also saved her white socks from a round in the wash. Lying on an old raggedy blanket that someone had left in a lost-and-found bin long enough for her conscience to deem it repurposing rather than stealing, she propped herself up to sit, taking a moment to reassess. Time had uncannily slipped away from her again. The sun was setting, but the clouds refused to break their constant vigil, now more than ever as they advanced overhead.
The small beads of rainwater took their time, seeming cautious to part with the clouds. Turning her face up to the sky, she smiled as the first brave drop kissed her nose, then her forehead, then her upper lip. She opened her mouth to let one fall on her tongue. She closed it again to allow her lips to form a smile.
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Most people would have hurriedly folded up the thin blanket, stuffed their feet into their shoes and ran with their heads bent low to shelter. Most people are afraid of rain. It’s a funny thing, really, that the little droplets of water that fall from the sky elicit such a different reaction than those drops of water that most people stand naked under every night before bed. Maybe it’s because those drops of water strip something away, exposing what can only be seen by a rusted showerhead. Maybe people are afraid of being exposed like that out and about in the world because they are terrified of what others will see. But not Kayla. She learned a long time ago that those drops of water that fall from the sky are the ancestors of those superficial drops in a shower, the ones that came first, and they should be respected. Loved. When the clouds decide to strip you bare, you must accept it. It’s nature’s way of reminding you that life inevitably strips us bare at one point or another; it’s not a matter of when it will happen but how one will deal with it when it does.
5:45 pm
With a start, Kayla snapped her eyes open, scolding herself for briefly being so absorbed in the moment. She had forgotten about the paper trapped under her hand, the ink that was already beginning to smear. Carefully folding once, then again, she tucked the small square into the back pocket of her jeans, safe under the folds of her raincoat. Her insides squeezed in discomfort, reminding her that it was finally time to get food. Her heart jumped a little when she remembered it was Monday.
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Her mother once told her that life doesn’t hand out sweet little moments like candy. Most of the time, you have to create them for yourself. Mondays may suck for the rest of working class America, but Kayla would not be a part of that fruitless grumbling. She made Mondays the best day of the week, because that’s when she allowed herself to spend the small sum of money set aside for her. In a life that revolves around making ends meet, it's easy to get caught being a slave to money, being driven and consumed by the desire to finally rest. But Kayla knew that no matter how many shifts she took it would never be enough to warrant that kind of rest, so she took time where she could. She didn’t wait for the scene to end; she put in on pause. In that stillness, she allowed herself to flit out of the film reel of her life. She centered herself by pausing the reel, and blissfully enjoying those little folds in time however she felt fit.
6:19 pm
Pulling into the parking lot, she saw the line of cars and quickly turned her wheel from the drive-thru lane to an empty spot close enough to the entrance. The rain was not so cautious now, she thought, as the droplets streaked down like little waterfalls all around her. She was about to get out of the car, almost forgetting about the little square in her pocket. Leaning back into the seat she pulled out the paper, setting it carefully on the dashboard. Now she was free to be in the rain. Slamming the rusty door of the ‘98 Ford Windstar behind her, she turned her face once more to the sky, and let the rain shower her with love. A laugh escaped her lips as she spread her arms wide, slowly twirling, twirling, twirling.
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The film reel was on pause.
6:22 pm
The woman looked up from the Filet-O-Fish trapped between her chipped pink nails to stare as a girl rang out her sopping hair onto the door mat, careful to not let any drips on the floor. So much for the effort, she scoffed mentally, as soon as that ditz gets off the mat she’s going to cause one hell of a mopping job. Is it that hard for people to use an umbrella? She shook her head at the audacity of some people, and let her teeth sink into the greasy fish, easing the guilt by telling herself she would eat better tomorrow.
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This is a woman who hates Mondays.
7:03 pm
The smell of grease penetrated the small car, the expected repercussions of deliciously processed meats and starches. Kayla’s stomach felt the effects too, her intestines writhing in pain, confused as to why they must be subject to such abuse. Kayla reclined her seat back, propped up her knees in front of the wheel, and turned her head, looking out the driver’s window up to the sky. The cloudy curtains had pulled apart, their lapse in vigil allowing a glimpse of the lightshow beyond. Leaning towards the passenger seat to unzip her Jansport, Kayla reached past the set of worksheets due the next morning, bravely plunging her fist into the depths of the bag. After retrieving the battered earbuds that never left her side, she queued up a few of her favorite songs, leaning back into the black vinyl fabric seat of the car. The loping melody whisked her right out of that rusty old chevy, right out of that small stretch of country in Louisiana, to a place that didn’t adhere to the minutes ticking by or the mounds of earthly duties that must be accomplished before sunrise or the little square of paper that was sitting on the dashboard. None of it could touch her. She was with the stars.
10:07 pm
“It’ll be ready for tomorrow, Kent, yes... no, thank you. Have a good night now. You too. Uh huh. Buh-bye.” The woman tucked her cell in her back pocket and emptied the remains of the leftover morning coffee into a mug. As it revolved slowly around itself, the microwave’s steady hum begged her eyes to droop closed. The curling iron’s hasty job at 5 am appeared at the very ends of her hair, a weak lift at the tip of her sandy strands the only remains of that effort. Her under eyes were dark with fatigue, yes, but the cheap mascara that had started to rub off from her lower lashes certainly amplified the effect. Snapping her eyes open at the microwave’s signal, the woman retrieved her scalding coffee and pulled out a rickety chair from the modest table. She slid her laptop forward, flexing her fingers and straightening her spine in an attempt to get the job done. Beneath the desperate facade of professionalism was the face of a mother who did not have the luxury of time to take care of herself.
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When Kayla’s father left, it wasn’t like a bomb erupted. There weren't any tangible casualties, at first. It was a slow burn, the pain, and it reduced Kayla’s mother to a gentle flicker of what she once was. Kayla’s ability to escape the dundrums of time saved her from irreversible damage, but not her mother. She is a woman trapped in the film reel.
12:03 am
“The stars were beautiful tonight, Mom. You would have loved it.” Kayla walked over to the small heater unit, wiggling her frigid fingers above the warm, stuffy air. “Did you see the Hunter?” her mom asked, shutting the laptop with a snap and looking up at her daughter. “Yep, and the Lynx, too. Plus a few shooting stars!” Kayla’s voice went up at the end, the sing-song tone boasting in her luck. “Lucky duck!” her mom feigned jealousy, playing along. Kayla smiled, then a line of worry creased her forehead, bringing her back to reality. “Are you sure we can do this?” she nodded down at the unit, working furiously to pump life into her purple extremities. “Yes, Kayla. I’m keeping track, please don’t worry about it,” her mom said with a sigh, getting up from the dining table and placing her coffee mug precariously on the stack of dishes. Resting her hip on the edge of the sink, she folded her arms comfortably against her rose-colored blouse and looked out the window above the kitchen sink to the clear, dark sky. Staring through the small gaps in the shutters, she whispered with a hint of desperation, “Tell me more about the stars.”
