PINKIE [First appeared in The Improper Hamptonian Oct. 2003.]
by Mary Vettel
Abby Rogers waddled along the icy sidewalk, a loaf of oven-fresh Foccacia bread clamped beneath his flabby arm. He was picturing Pinkie’s face.
He loved the way Pinkie's makeup was so expertly applied. Not like some of the women he passed on the sidewalk. They seemed to have applied their makeup in a dark room, missing the mark with each cosmetic item. They didn’t care how they looked. His girl, on the other hand, always looked like she’d just stepped out of a bandbox. And her shoulder-length jet-black hair ... he could just sit and brush that for hours. Pinkie. Always pert and alert. He giggled at his rhyme.
Abby sidestepped a slushy puddle, wondering what she’d be wearing when he got home. She was still lying naked on the bed when he’d left for work that morning. After putting in his usual lackluster performance as dispatcher at his brother-in-law’s cab company, Abby was ready for a quiet evening with Pinkie. He chuckled, then snorted loudly through his itchy wool muffler. His laugh slipped into a smoker’s cough and he stopped walking, his free hand pressed against the brick building for support. Abby squeezed his thighs together to keep from wetting his pants.
Would she greet him at the door tonight? He loved when she did that. Just standing there with that look on her face, her crayon blue eyes studying him as he hung up his coat and muffler. Wanting to hear about his day. Watching him. Her cherry red lips not saying a word. He loved how quiet she was. So sexy. Never interrupting, never complaining, never nagging. Never telling him to pick up his dirty underwear. Never telling him to get his feet off the coffee table. Never once berating him for eating potato chips in bed. It would never even enter her head to count how many beer cans he left strewn about the tiny apartment. She never told him he needed a shave and a shower. Never tired of sitting beside him while he watched ballgame after ballgame. Never. Not his Pinkie. Nice and quiet; just the way he liked it. He hated women who yakked all the time. Always finding fault. Always belittling and undermining him.
Abby clenched his teeth on the fingertip of his glove and pulled it off, exposing his fingers - still greasy from a double gyro lunch - to the biting air. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His head spun. Damn his brother-in-law for not allowing him to smoke at work. Abby knew it was the law, but come on. The dispatcher's office was a crummy little hole in the wall.
He continued his walk; two blocks to go. He pulled down his muffler and scratched his face. He needed a shave. When he had shaved last week he noticed how much gray was mingled in with the dark brown stubble. Pinkie didn’t seem to mind. She found it attractive. She found everything about Abby attractive.
His mother didn’t approve of Pinkie. She was appalled and repulsed by her; referred to her as an ‘air head’. The very mention of Pinkie and Abby’s mother would run from the room sobbing “Why can’t you find a normal girl?”
Abby couldn’t understand his mother’s dramatic reaction. He was happy with Pinkie. Wasn’t that all a mother was supposed to be concerned about?
One more block to go. He couldn’t wait. He shoved his hand inside the white paper bag and started on the bread. He envisioned the table laid out with a white linen cloth, candles and a large platter of linguine with clam sauce, imagined the aroma of garlic and basil filling his nostrils. He saw Pinkie sitting across from him, pleased with his hearty appetite. He knew Pinkie wouldn’t have dinner waiting for him of course. She never did. But Abby didn’t mind. He liked to cook; liked the tiny kitchen all steamy from boiling water; the stove all covered in clam sauce splatters.
The honk of a passing car snapped Abby out of his reverie. He jumped back onto the curb and swore at the driver for splashing him with slush. Looking at the state of his sodden clothes made Abby wish Pinkie could go to the laundromat sometimes. But she never left the apartment. Her entire world revolved around Abby. And that was the way he liked it, after all. Wasn't it?
He fumbled with his keys as he mounted the stairs to his apartment. Huffing and puffing up the last few steps, he couldn’t help the tingly feeling of excitement that flushed his cheeks and quickened his already short breath. Abby unwrapped his muffler and wiped the breadcrumbs from his greasy lips. He unlocked the door and pushed it open with a jab of a fat finger.
“Pinkie, I’m home.”
He settled his coat on the hook by the door then shambled down the narrow hallway, past the empty kitchen and into the bedroom.
“Pinkie!” he cried, dropping the bag of bread.
She was slumped on the floor.
He lumbered over and dropped into an awkward squat beside her still form. “Oh, Pinkie,” he groaned. “Not again.”
Her crayon blue eyes stared up at him lifelessly. Her cherry red lips were parted in their usual ‘O’ shape. Abby cradled her in his arms, inhaled deeply and blew hard into the little inflation tube that had come undone on her side.
He loved the way Pinkie's makeup was so expertly applied. Not like some of the women he passed on the sidewalk. They seemed to have applied their makeup in a dark room, missing the mark with each cosmetic item. They didn’t care how they looked. His girl, on the other hand, always looked like she’d just stepped out of a bandbox. And her shoulder-length jet-black hair ... he could just sit and brush that for hours. Pinkie. Always pert and alert. He giggled at his rhyme.
Abby sidestepped a slushy puddle, wondering what she’d be wearing when he got home. She was still lying naked on the bed when he’d left for work that morning. After putting in his usual lackluster performance as dispatcher at his brother-in-law’s cab company, Abby was ready for a quiet evening with Pinkie. He chuckled, then snorted loudly through his itchy wool muffler. His laugh slipped into a smoker’s cough and he stopped walking, his free hand pressed against the brick building for support. Abby squeezed his thighs together to keep from wetting his pants.
Would she greet him at the door tonight? He loved when she did that. Just standing there with that look on her face, her crayon blue eyes studying him as he hung up his coat and muffler. Wanting to hear about his day. Watching him. Her cherry red lips not saying a word. He loved how quiet she was. So sexy. Never interrupting, never complaining, never nagging. Never telling him to pick up his dirty underwear. Never telling him to get his feet off the coffee table. Never once berating him for eating potato chips in bed. It would never even enter her head to count how many beer cans he left strewn about the tiny apartment. She never told him he needed a shave and a shower. Never tired of sitting beside him while he watched ballgame after ballgame. Never. Not his Pinkie. Nice and quiet; just the way he liked it. He hated women who yakked all the time. Always finding fault. Always belittling and undermining him.
Abby clenched his teeth on the fingertip of his glove and pulled it off, exposing his fingers - still greasy from a double gyro lunch - to the biting air. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His head spun. Damn his brother-in-law for not allowing him to smoke at work. Abby knew it was the law, but come on. The dispatcher's office was a crummy little hole in the wall.
He continued his walk; two blocks to go. He pulled down his muffler and scratched his face. He needed a shave. When he had shaved last week he noticed how much gray was mingled in with the dark brown stubble. Pinkie didn’t seem to mind. She found it attractive. She found everything about Abby attractive.
His mother didn’t approve of Pinkie. She was appalled and repulsed by her; referred to her as an ‘air head’. The very mention of Pinkie and Abby’s mother would run from the room sobbing “Why can’t you find a normal girl?”
Abby couldn’t understand his mother’s dramatic reaction. He was happy with Pinkie. Wasn’t that all a mother was supposed to be concerned about?
One more block to go. He couldn’t wait. He shoved his hand inside the white paper bag and started on the bread. He envisioned the table laid out with a white linen cloth, candles and a large platter of linguine with clam sauce, imagined the aroma of garlic and basil filling his nostrils. He saw Pinkie sitting across from him, pleased with his hearty appetite. He knew Pinkie wouldn’t have dinner waiting for him of course. She never did. But Abby didn’t mind. He liked to cook; liked the tiny kitchen all steamy from boiling water; the stove all covered in clam sauce splatters.
The honk of a passing car snapped Abby out of his reverie. He jumped back onto the curb and swore at the driver for splashing him with slush. Looking at the state of his sodden clothes made Abby wish Pinkie could go to the laundromat sometimes. But she never left the apartment. Her entire world revolved around Abby. And that was the way he liked it, after all. Wasn't it?
He fumbled with his keys as he mounted the stairs to his apartment. Huffing and puffing up the last few steps, he couldn’t help the tingly feeling of excitement that flushed his cheeks and quickened his already short breath. Abby unwrapped his muffler and wiped the breadcrumbs from his greasy lips. He unlocked the door and pushed it open with a jab of a fat finger.
“Pinkie, I’m home.”
He settled his coat on the hook by the door then shambled down the narrow hallway, past the empty kitchen and into the bedroom.
“Pinkie!” he cried, dropping the bag of bread.
She was slumped on the floor.
He lumbered over and dropped into an awkward squat beside her still form. “Oh, Pinkie,” he groaned. “Not again.”
Her crayon blue eyes stared up at him lifelessly. Her cherry red lips were parted in their usual ‘O’ shape. Abby cradled her in his arms, inhaled deeply and blew hard into the little inflation tube that had come undone on her side.
