We’ll vanish in a blind spot portal

[flash fiction]

I’ve wanted so badly for so long to tell someone about the triangles, the ones I see when I close my eyes and sit in stillness, or as still and silent as my monkey mind allows. One day, I’ll work up the nerve to tell a coworker over sandwiches in the break room about them, how I sense them with my third eye, suspended in a haze like fog settled between mountaintops. She’ll have just taken a bite of her cucumber and hummus on seven-grain and raise her eyebrows, put her fingers to her mouth, too excited to finish chewing before shouting, “Oh my gosh! I totally know what you’re talking about.” She’ll wear her wavy auburn hair in an adorably disheveled topknot and tilt her whole torso back when she laughs. The only makeup she’ll wear is blue-black mascara on her lashes and Rosebud Salve on her lips.

One Tuesday morning, she’ll stop by my cubicle with her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of chamomile tea, and we’ll whisper about how we both saw a metallic blue Buick in our rearview mirrors on the way to work. But when we went to merge into the left lane, it was gone, vanished into a blind spot portal. My phone will ring, and she’ll smile and walk back to her cubicle, leaving behind the warmth of her coconut hand cream.

We’ll share a cigarette in the parking lot after work and fantasize about what’s waiting for us through those triangle portals, plan a road trip to go there together over Memorial Day weekend. We’ll decide to rent a more reliable car, take turns driving, but not even book hotel rooms along the way, just go, a real adventure.

One day, when we’re the only ones in the break room, she’ll pull out a bridal magazine and show me an earmarked page with photos of mason jar flower arrangements she’s considering for her wedding in the fall. I’ll tell her that they are “perfect, so rustic, but so romantic.”

She’ll smile and slide her hands out to me across the table. “Michelle,” she’ll say, and we’ll be holding hands so tight I can feel her engagement ring pressing into my fingers. “I want you to be my maid of honor.” And I’ll say, “Of course!” and we’ll squeal and hug, and her silver bracelets will sing.

After she walks back to her cubicle, I’ll linger over my carrots and kale dip, alone at the table, listening to the copy machine receive an order and start sliding out pages of someone’s monthly report. I’ll imagine her wearing a purple full-length gown covered in triangle-shaped rhinestones, light beaming in all directions from the dress like rays from little pyramids, like that hotel in Vegas with its searchlight scanning toward space.

The time will come for our trip through the portals. We’ll put our overnight bags in the trunk of the newly washed white Chevy Aveo. I’ll offer to drive first. We’ll get in and turn toward each other after buckling our seat belts. She’ll take a deep excited breath, let it out with a sigh, which will make me drop the keys on the console and giggle, which will make her laugh with her eyes wide and her teeth showing; and we’ll take each other’s hands and hold tight. My hands are cold even though it’s summer and I’m beyond excited. Hers are sweaty, filled with energy.

“Here we go,” I say, and we close our eyes and wait.

MichelleMcMahonMichelle spends most of her time in alternate universes created by memories, where she writes short stories and poems. Some of the places her work has appeared are Shelf Life, Wheelhouse Magazine, River Walk Journal, Getgo Magazine, SHAMPOO, and Hot Whiskey Magazine. She lives in Southern California with two sons and a husband.