ACCELERATION DUE TO GRAVITY

If it was a bad day, she would stop at a random bus stop and offer a man a ride. If this stranger was young or if his shoulders appeared large enough to fill her palms, even better. Riding beside him, she would picture the man strangling her, his blue-collar hands clasped around her smooth neck and his body hovering hot atop of her own. But if her stranger said thank you and didn’t ask to change her radio station, if he didn’t appear to have any tattoos or a wedding ring, then she might imagine him proposing instead of strangling.

Murder or Marry. Marry or Murder. It made her think of some playground game favored by girls with long pigtails, stomping out the rhythm to a jump rope, taunting the scabby-kneed boys nearby. Then it made her think of false fate and barroom choices and starry-eyed regrets.

If it was a bad day and her mother called to suggest another fix-up, she would recall Alan the Accountant and his limp, warm penis and the tender way he whispered her name, the way he murmured, This has never happened before and I’m sorry and You have your mother’s eyes.

If it was a bad day and she couldn’t sleep, she would open her window and straddle the ledge and smoke a cigarette. She would let the ashes tumble down to her naked thighs; her legs would dangle and she would feel the deep, invisible tug of gravity and inevitability. She liked how the cold window frame could numb the warm ache between her legs.

But, if it was a good day, she would drive to work using side streets, avoiding the bus stops altogether. She would ask the receptionist and maybe another girl in human resources if they wanted to go to lunch. Over salad and bitter ice tea, she would say, as if making a joke, I’m going to find a husband or die trying! And wait for everyone to laugh.

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