Cackle

by Rachel Harrison

I sip the wine. It’s like velvet on my tongue. My taste buds nod in approval, stand up and applaud.

When we broke up, he said that our spark had fizzled. I must not be sparkly enough. I must be pretty dull.

You never realize how special it is to share a random inside joke until something funny happens and you have no one to tell.

So what if she dabbles in some dark magic and is over a hundred years old? I like her, and she likes me. She’s my friend.

I wonder if maybe I am special, and it only took someone else special to point it out to me.

On the way out, by the door, there’s a spider. I stop to say hello. I watch as the spider lifts one of his legs and begins to wave it back and forth, back and forth.

the first warm day of the season, those magical hours in early spring when you no longer need a jacket, when the sun is high and bright, when the birds are extra chatty.

He really is great company. The most adorable spider. And he does help. If I cry, he cries. His cries are terrible. He makes this horrible, high-pitched squeaking noise. It’s enough to discourage me. Also, he’s too cute. After one look at him, it’s hard to be sad about anything.

So I surrender to the night. I surrender to dancing wildly and to blackberry wine. I pour a drop out for Ralph. He drinks it, hiccups, stumbles a few steps, then passes out on his back.

“I gave you so much of myself,” I say, “and you wasted me.”