by Brehanna Ramirez
She had eaten the apple earlier that day but kept returning every hour to the refrigerator in hopes it would be there.
The TV was on and her dachshund would lie on her lap each time she returned from the kitchen. Slide marks on the greasy floor from her slippers. They were once a color. Or had there always been brown? She was watching the biased news channel that was suggesting things to make her more of a republican if only she could stop looking for the fruit.
She slid back into the kitchen. The dachshund waited patiently. She came back empty handed, and he joined her again on her lap. The television was on again and now there was an old western. Had she seen this one before? Her eyes were glazed over and hungry. Her stomach was growling with irritation and impatience. The dachshund let out a low bark in surprise.
She was lost in a gaze thinking about the apple. Was it red? Yes it was red. With no bruises, and sweetly rotund. Teeth could slide into it and still pull back a crunch. She was so hungry. Why couldn’t she find it? Had the dachshund ate it?
She looked at the brown dog with his lumps of fur matted. He looked up at her with her matted hair patchy. They were seeing almost through each other’s hunger relationship. He was scared. He left her lap in search of his dog dish filled with miscellaneous ingredients and indigestion. She followed him.
The tile was sticky with crumbs along the border of his bowl. Brown flecks in a circular gradient. He ate with the corner of his eye low but watching her. Above him she stood with her hand on her slumped back. She watched unforgiving yet suspicious. Her kitchen was many shades of flesh and neutral. She began to blend into the environment. The dog was still eating. His mouth moving rapidly in fear.
She heard the TV on, calling her with slogans and one-liners of American ideals and capitalist products. ‘Need a new spine? Call this number, now!’ Her eyes shifted gaze flickered for a moment. The dachshund stopped in silence.
The gauzy drapery was the only barrier between the forlorn world outside. The programs could only run so long. The food would degrade itself. She held onto to the idea of her one unknown apple and reached for her pooch. Hands outreaching in angles from arthritis. Years spent flipping through the Bible. The one right Revolution was death.
The dachshund dashed through her slippers. Her hip would not hold. Her body’s long rebellion from lack of sun, lack of vegetables, lack of movement, lack of euphoria crashing as it should have. The dachshund whined at her failure. Shaking momentarily with grace.
Brehanna Ramirez was freshly grown in Sacramento, California but now writes fiction and makes books in an attic somewhere. Learn even less about her here: http://cargocollective.com/brehannaramirez