Jay Robinson

 
 

RIVAL HOSTESS SYNDROME

Not to be confused with Rival Hostages Syndrome.

She discussed the social ladder like it had rungs; he thought she wanted him to clean the gutters.

Objectivity; in other words, the view from the roof.

Anyway, the detour seemed to take longer.

Sometimes if the light hits them right, leaves look on fire.

Little flames drip onto the ground.

Death is so decadent, he said, because he wanted to sound cliché.

It was sunny outside; it was also cold.

In the old days we could avoid each other more easily.

Like missing a belt loop.

At the end of every day she promised a pop quiz.

True/False: He shouldn’t have gotten rid of all his flannel.

True/False: There are only questions, no answers.

Sometimes what she wanted for lunch was someone else’s neck.

Simultaneously he was the hero and the villain.

She was a blank to be filled in with more blanks but the blanks had to be in a precise order.

Things had gone on like this for a year. Maybe more.

I’m over it, she said. But she didn’t say what it represented.