Reality: DRY WISHING WELL

The morning dawns with dying embers. For me it looms large, empty, part of a widow’s world. Looking toward the sun, I vow the downcast days will not beat me in unconsciousness. Plans, I must make plans for things to do after I  have my usual six ounces of O.J., cold cereal with a raggedly sliced banana, slopped over with fat free milk. It is not manna from heaven.

 

My horoscope read, laughed at, bed made, I shower and dress. The high intensity lamp I use to apply the little make-up I wear and to position my contact lenses correctly, suddenly fizzles and goes dark. Without it I feel lost. I struggle, insert my lenses opposite to how they should be, remove them and try again, until my eyes are red and blurry. Drops help a little, barely enough for me to scan the Sunday paper. It, with the daily deliveries, go in the recycle bin within ten minutes of my looking at the frightening headlines.

 

My car still smells like my husband. I breathe it deeply and head for Home Depot, the only place I know who carries the special light bulb I need. The little trip is nothing more than something to do this morning. I dawdle amongst the nails, hoses, lawn mowers, all things I will never need again. That prospect drags me down. For the first time, there are no customers ahead of me at the cashier’s desk and damn, I am out of there too fast.

 

My preparations for Action #2 lead me to the Garden Mall. There I will continue the survey of Single Senior Males that I have originated and think it has possibilities to lessen my monotonous days—and nights.
Hesitance walks beside me. Snakes coil around my gray intestines. What I plan to do can be fun , interesting, but is neither.

 

After one slow circle of the Mall, my paraphernalia, pen, clipboard, questionnaire have not been used.

 

I want to scream, run, go home but I start circle two. Finally I see a man sitting alone on a stone bench who doesn’t look too bad. His back is towards me. Hesitating, I take the plunge, walk in front of him, ready to introduce myself and fib a little by telling him I am doing research on single senior men for radio station WFRL. Thru my bifocals that are almost falling off the tip of my nose I see his hearing aids, then his cane leaning against his left thigh. His bulging eyes, extremely soft voice and polite attitude surprise me. He seems pleased to try to help me but I realize his hearing aids must be set too low as I must repeat every question several times. Most likely he hadn’t heard me say Single SENIOR men. His wife appears, asks no questions and drags him away.

 

This is a tough thing I am trying to do, useless for sure. The hardest part is not just to find single men but to find men who meet my criteria. It is impossible. A dangling cigarette, the smell of a cigar, rate zero. There can be no paunches, no canes, no walkers, bandaged knees, sloppy clothes, too short, too fat, too old or a bad toupee . One plus is definitely his ability to drive at night. What chance do I have? None!

 

As I rest contemplating the half dozen men sitting around the palm-draped fountain, looking at all the wishing pennies in the water, wives carrying shopping bags, waving, ‘Here I am, Sam.’ I slip my pen in my purse and  strut, like the Queen of the May towards the mall’s exit.

 

I had no pennies and wouldn’t waste my quarters throwing them into the fountain. They would do no good. Wishes are for fools. I tear up my survey papers and go home.