NEW FICTION
My significant other. My other half. I am no
longer whole.
Bonnie, confident, commanding,
compassionate counselor, escorts us to another
room. A sofa, two chairs. I want to lie down
and pour everything out, and be cured. I think
my other half wants to
demonstrate that he is civil,
kind and considerate as he
allows us to choose our seats,
standing like a courtier.
King Jack. The leather on the
sofa squeaks companionably
as I sit. Bonnie chooses
the recliner and Jack is
forced to decide between
the Edwardian wingback
on her side of the room or
the sofa with me. He stands.
“Sit,” says Bonnie, giving no
hint as to where. He sits on
the edge of the distant end
of the sofa with his body
turned slightly away from
me and only part of his gaze
on Bonnie.
I want to lie down on
the cool quiet leather, and
spill my beans, boil over, simmer down, have
someone stick an IV in my arm and a cool cloth
on my head. Ease my pain or put me to sleep. I
am suddenly very tired. I can’t remember why
I am here. Wouldn’t it just be easier to go home
and carry on as a half human creature ignoring
all my instincts?
Outside the open window, a
mockingbird flits out of the dense bougainvillea.
It lifts its head and lets loose a glorious song
of perfectly high unfettered notes. “Well,” says
Bonnie. “Where shall we begin?”
Spring | Summer 2019 | MartinArts 21
One High Note
By Amy Dahan
fter twenty-one years of
stepping on each others’ toes,
we try to take a dancing
lesson. I arrive first at the
counselor’s office. Bonnie is
her name. She comes highly
recommended by both
divorce attorneys. With my
hand on the gate, I peer into
her carport at the compact
car with its trunk cover
open, expecting a delivery,
or unloading something
big? The ordinariness of the
stained concrete and old
Rubbermaid container by
the step, the dirty garden
gloves curled like dry leaves
on the floor, these things do
not portend the miracle that
I think may be required to
transform blood into wine or
bone into bread.
I sigh, and turn to
the front of the house. She
must be a gardener. The path
to the front door is sprouting
an odd mix of plants and
pottery. I press the doorbell, leaning my ear to
the dark green door. Is the doorbell is working?
Should I knock? The door flies open and a
woman - Bonnie - embraces the space by flinging
open her arms. “Come in, come in!” She is a
master of transitions and emptiness and filling in.
She earns her living on uneasiness and the messy
stuff we want to deny. “Come in!”
I step inside and take in the bookshelves
lining the walls, the piano in the center of
the room, the small lamps on cocktail tables
and wonder, are there parties here? Concerts?
Cultured tête-à-tête? In the far corner, an elegant
bronze nude reaches up from a marble topped
stand. In this corner...I jump at the sound of
the doorbell announcing my opponent, my
enemy, my lover and my friend, the father of my
children, the man of my dreams, my nightmare.
Amy participated in the Fall 2018 writer’s
workshop with Betty Jo Buro held at the Court
House Cultural Center.
A spring session is in the works, call Laura Daniel
for information, 772-287-6676, ext 6.
A