For Magpie Tales
She needed the watering can.
She needed the watering can to water the damn flowers. Why she ever let herself be convinced that gardening was great and wonderful and enjoyable and it made everything look oh so pretty she'd never know. She hated nature and bugs and anything that got dirt under her nails. She was a city girl. A city girl trying to pass country.
Her friends warned her that it would never work. But she didn't listen. She fell in love with his country charm and rugged good looks and he with her city glam and excitable personality. She was besotted. He was different; different from the metrosexuals that littered the city who took more pains in pampering themselves with manis and pedis and waxing off body hair than pampering the women they were with. Christ, she always felt like she was in some sort of pageant competition with them. She wanted to date a real man for a change. A man that had hair in all the right places and that smelled of man and tasted of man and acted like a man and didn't have fits at the drop of a pin. And she had finally found him.
She had found him. She had found her ideal man at last. And he swept her off her feet with his booming voice and sexy drawl and gentlemanly, tender ways. Tender ways that were left best in the privacy of their home, just the way she liked it. Not the Tweetering, Facebooking fishbowl existence that seemed to be so in and addictive with everybody these days. Nothing was private anymore. Nothing was sacred.
He swept her off her feet and brought her here to his home where white-capped mountains could be seen from their bedroom window, a home that rested on acres and acres of green luscious land. They were drunk with love and spent their days working the ranch and nights lying naked in bed exploring and giving pleasure to each other.
She was happy. Giddy, actually. She had found her ideal man. Her ideal life.
And now she needed that fucking watering can. And her pills. The pills that kept the crazy away, the very ones that had run out a week ago. The pills she had been taking since she hit sixteen when usual teenage behavior no longer could be used as an excuse; the pills she never told him about.
She thought of last night and what had happened. They had been drunk. What started as a good evening went south pretty fast. She began to scream and throw things. She was losing it, she told him. She said she couldn't take this Godforsaken land anymore and was on the verge of a breakdown. She wanted to go back. She wanted to go back to her city. Instead, he kept telling her to calm down and that just angered her more. He grabbed her and tried holding her in an effort to calm her. That only made her feel more trapped. Trapped in a desolate land with no out and now trapped in his arms. That's when she lost it. He wasn't listening! This wasn't some little tantrum in the name of attention, she was loosing it dammit and he wasn't listening! After that, the rest was one big drunken blur. And when she woke this morning he was nowhere to be found, his side of the bed still made. She looked for him all around but couldn't find him and when she saw his truck still parked outside her heart dropped.
No, it was a dream. It had to be.
There was the can. The same watering can she had dreamt of last night. The same watering can she had used in her dream to water the newly-planted flowers over the mound that lay just over the side of this concrete bench. The mound she took such pains to dig and cover under the monstrous full moon.
Her hand quickly covered her mouth in an attempt to silence the disquieting rumblings that were about to scream their way out. And that's when she smelled the dirt. And tasted it. She looked down and finally noticed her dirty clothes. And her fingernails. Fingernails embedded with red-blood dirt, the only reminder of a night gone horribly awry.