Mrs. Fletcher

by Tom Perrotta

Birthdays, holidays, weddings, graduations, funerals—they were all too loaded with expectations, and the important people in her life rarely acted the way they were supposed to.

He’d apparently done the dirty work by text and refused to talk to her afterward, just crumpled up the relationship and tossed it in the trash, a tactic he’d learned from his father.

She had a slightly dizzying sense of being overtaken by time, the future becoming the present before she was ready.

You know how sometimes, if you try not to think about something, you become that much more aware of it?

“And it’s not like it’s gonna make any difference. Doesn’t matter where you live. You’re always just kind of alone with your shit, you know?”

But it seemed kind of harsh, and even a bit cowardly, to call someone out and then cut off all possibility of communication, as if they had no right to respond, as if they were dead to you.

She thought she might call Cat and commission a portrait of herself for the Call-Out Wall: JUST WANTS EVERYONE TO BE HAPPY, EVEN THE PEOPLE WHO DON’T DESERVE IT.

How could you not acknowledge a gift of food left on your doorstep?