Trash

She loved him because he paid her in big wads of cash. Money like that was heavy. She felt it lumping around in her purse when she walked to the bank. And since he was very old and sometimes forgot to pay her, she decided to love him regardless, no matter what. Besides, he always remembered the following week and compensated her well for his mistakes. Also, it was relatively easy. The old man didn’t require much love. He had already lived a long life full of love. Which was lucky for her because she was lazy. Who could blame her for liking cashmere sleepwear and strange, imported cheese? Expensive taste is a virtue in an overcast city. Like religion. And like an honest housewife she knew when and where to spend her money. An early lesson from her mother before she died. She wondered which part of her mother’s taut, pointed finger was living furiously inside her, jabbing her shoulder blades. Tsk Tsk, could be heard echoing in her mind like a ringing phone. She had spent her teenage years trying to tune it out, among other things. When the old man died she went to his funeral after a disappointing visit to the dentist. Her flossing efforts had not paid off. Three and a half cavities, mocking her previous three. Since she was the only whore in the funeral parlor, everyone stared. No one offered an excuse for who she was. So of course she couldn’t help but feel totally shitty. Also, it meant she shouldn’t stay long. When she passed the solid oak casket where his body lay inside she didn’t resist putting her hand on his stiff chest, petting his silky green tie. Wrinkles in his fleshy make-up made him look too old. Or perhaps it was the downer lighting or the drugs from the dentist, but it didn’t matter. That night she went home and ordered way too much sushi. When the bell rang, she answered the door wearing only her bath towel and a pair of vintage flats. She tipped the young delivery boy an extra two bucks and watched from her window as he mounted his bike and rode away against traffic. It was a Monday. On Friday she received a letter in the mail. Inside the envelope clung two yellow post-its. One from an old woman’s shaky pen: “You filthy bitch. You sucked him dry.” The other in his patient, elegant cursive: “I’m sorry for this and everything else. In the end I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing.” She tore the first post-it in half and threw it away. Then she carried his post-it to the kitchen and stuck it on the fridge beneath a magnet spelling out Happy Holidays in tiny reindeer bodies.