Dusty Trophies [minutelovestory 117]

Posted by on Jul 28, 2015 in minutelovestories | No Comments

With knees like macaroni, she couldn’t quite lift her feet. White sneakers hip width apart, she swung her arms from her sides, outstretched and above her head, wriggling her hands as if she were signaling a searching helicopter, as if she were trapped among apocalyptic boom rubble, her zigzagged body coated with the silt of disaster. She’d smack her palms together at the apex, triumphant.

These aerobic inventions that reject jumping, they’re “Just Jacks,” she says. Just Jacks could’ve been a dating game show in the days when Louise’s own mother offered cigarettes in etched crystal tumblers on the Thanksgiving table, flanking the spatchcocked turkey. “You cut it open down the center,” her mother instructed, rubbing a blue-tinged turkey thigh with a whole butter stick. “You just cut apart the backbone and it drops open.”

Just Jacks make the dogs pace. They howl at her dancing, but Louise’s swinging motions and crisscrossing made them uneasy. Scuffling inside the doorframe, bumping against each other.

“I’ll walk them around the block,” offered Stewart, loosely tying a cotton sweater over his sunken shoulders and the dogs following behind him on the sidewalk look like those wooden pull toys, if you looked quick, squinting.