Weird Kid
The bartender in
my grandmother’s basement
mixed a mean martini.
He stood in the darkness
of her rec room bar,
pudgy face frozen
in a grimace, metal
shaker in one hand,
glass stem in the other.
When you flipped
his “on” switch,
the bartender came to life—
calmly pouring a jigger
of invisible booze into
his glass, then sampling it
for quality. Instantly, his
face turned crimson.
His white, worm-like mustache
curled and wrinkled
as he spat into midair, then
repeated the same process
over and over and over.
I stared at his puckered lips,
transfixed. Something about
the spectacle thrilled me
despite myself. I prayed my
grandmother wouldn’t catch me,
and she never did.
It would have been
hard for me to explain that
I had a crush on an alcoholic toy.
Widow’s Rebound
Fresh nectarine crisp
and soft blues piano
in my living room corner.
Aroma of oatmeal and cinnamon.
I wait for the oven to complete
its sorcery, a final surge
that signals fulfilment.
None of this is real:
your tumbleweed of notes,
our box of vanilla ice cream
thawing on the counter.
Too soon perhaps.
My husband dead
less than two years.
You slide in without effort:
seated beside me on the couch,
breathing like my air was yours.
Even when you didn’t
see it coming, I knew.
The prod of my foot
caused the tower to plummet,
and we are falling still.
The bartender in
my grandmother’s basement
mixed a mean martini.
He stood in the darkness
of her rec room bar,
pudgy face frozen
in a grimace, metal
shaker in one hand,
glass stem in the other.
When you flipped
his “on” switch,
the bartender came to life—
calmly pouring a jigger
of invisible booze into
his glass, then sampling it
for quality. Instantly, his
face turned crimson.
His white, worm-like mustache
curled and wrinkled
as he spat into midair, then
repeated the same process
over and over and over.
I stared at his puckered lips,
transfixed. Something about
the spectacle thrilled me
despite myself. I prayed my
grandmother wouldn’t catch me,
and she never did.
It would have been
hard for me to explain that
I had a crush on an alcoholic toy.
Widow’s Rebound
Fresh nectarine crisp
and soft blues piano
in my living room corner.
Aroma of oatmeal and cinnamon.
I wait for the oven to complete
its sorcery, a final surge
that signals fulfilment.
None of this is real:
your tumbleweed of notes,
our box of vanilla ice cream
thawing on the counter.
Too soon perhaps.
My husband dead
less than two years.
You slide in without effort:
seated beside me on the couch,
breathing like my air was yours.
Even when you didn’t
see it coming, I knew.
The prod of my foot
caused the tower to plummet,
and we are falling still.
Leah Mueller is the author of ten prose and poetry books. She lives and writes in Bisbee, Arizona. Her new book, "The Destruction of Angels" (Anxiety Press) was published in October 2022. Leah's work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She is a 2022 nominee for both Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her flash piece, "Land of Eternal Thirst" appears in the 2022 edition of Sonder Press' "Best Small Fictions" anthology. Website: www.leahmueller.org.
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